HE ROAKED AND SCOLDED AND SNAPPED AND SNARLED 
 
 (page 252)
 
 SISTER SUE 
 
 BY 
 ELEANOR H. PORTER 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 (Efce Rtoetjji&e J&re&f Cam6ri&a 
 1921
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY THE BUTTERICK PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 COPYRIGHT, 1931, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 
 To the innumerable 
 
 SISTER SUES 
 
 All over the world who, patient and uncom- 
 plaining, have lived their " barren " lives with 
 
 the " life worth while " ever beckoning them 
 
 
 
 from afar, and especially 
 
 to certain very dear "Sister Sues " 
 
 personally known to me but whose modesty 
 
 forbids my mentioning them here by name 
 
 THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
 
 2137728 '
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I. THE PETTY DETAILS 1 
 
 II. ALL FOR LOVE 15 
 
 III. COUSIN ABBY 27 
 
 IV. "LAST THINGS" 49 
 
 V. GlLMOREVILLE 65 
 
 VI. DAYS OF ADJUSTMENT 78 
 
 VII. WHAT DOES IT MATTER ? 89 
 
 VIII. VISITORS AND CONSEQUENCES 106 
 
 IX. FOUNDATIONS 122 
 
 X. OLD HOME WEEK 129 
 
 XI. DONALD KENDALL 149 
 
 XII. GREETINGS AND ENCORES 165 
 
 XIII. DEPARTING GUESTS 177 
 
 XIV. A "BEST SELLER" AND A POSTPONED 
 
 MARRIAGE 201 
 
 XV. REVELATIONS 209 
 
 XVI. SOME READJUSTMENTS 224 
 
 XVII. OXE WEEK IN JUNE 235 
 
 XVIII. THE LURE OF A GOLDEN CURL 240 
 
 XIX. A BROKEN ARM 247 
 
 XX. MISTS, SUNSHINE, AND CLOUDS 256 
 
 XXI. THE REVOLT 272 
 
 XXII. THE LIFE WORTH WHILE 281 
 
 XXIII. THE OPPORTUNITY 293
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 HE ROARED AND SCOLDED AND SNAPPED AND 
 
 SNARLED Frontispiece 
 
 "I'LL BE LUCKY IF IF I HAVE A WHITE MUSLIN TO 
 
 GET MARRIED IN" 36 
 
 THEY HAD A VERY BEAUTIFUL WALK 110 
 
 THE GIRLS TOLD HER THEY ENJOYED THE DANCE, AND 
 CANDY, AND EVERYTHING 198
 
 SISTER SUE 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE PETTY DETAILS 
 
 "AsK your sister Sue. She'll know." 
 
 Sister Sue herself, hurrying through the hall, heard 
 her father's voice in the library. He was speaking, she 
 suspected, to her sister May; though it might be, of 
 course, to her brother Gordon. In either case it would 
 be the same some petty detail of daily living that 
 was to be referred to her; and Sister Sue did not want 
 some petty detail of daily living referred to her 
 just now. 
 
 She was tired and sick of petty details of daily 
 living. They were so petty, so small, so insignificant, 
 so trivial! As if there were no one else in the house 
 who could tell whether or not May should wear her 
 rubbers, or where Gordon's baseball bat was! But 
 there did not seem to be. "Ask your sister Sue." If 
 she heard it once, she heard it a dozen times a day 
 or, rather, she might have heard it, if she had chanced 
 to be near, as she was to-day. 
 
 With a quick look over her shoulder toward the 
 library door, and a hastening of her step up the thickly 
 padded stairway, she sped along the upper hall to an 
 open door halfway down the wide passageway. She
 
 2 SISTER SUE 
 
 paused, but only for an instant. The next moment 
 she had darted across the hall, opened another door, 
 and shut it quickly behind her. 
 
 She drew a long breath, her back hard-pressed 
 against the door. 
 
 For a minute for one little minute she was 
 free. She would be free ! And she was going to be free, 
 too! As if all her life, all her glorious life, she was to 
 be tied to her sister's rubbers and her brother's base- 
 ball bat! Indeed, no! Had not that very day Signer 
 Bartoni said ? 
 
 With an ecstatic little indrawn breath she drew her 
 hands together across her breast in a rapturous self- 
 embrace. Once again in her ears rang the music- 
 master's enthusiastic commendation and the gener- 
 ous applause of her classmate audience. Once again 
 before her eyes rose the vision of countless other 
 audiences-to-be, with herself bowing her thanks to 
 their clamorous demands of "Encore! Encore!" 
 Once again through her whole self tingled the ecstasy 
 of interpreting to a listening multitude the master 
 thoughts of a master mind until the ivory keys under 
 her fingers seemed living voices to speak her message 
 as she willed. 
 
 And she could do it. She knew she could do it. Had 
 not Signer Bartoni said that never before had a pupil 
 of his played that concerto with such beauty of tone 
 and perfection of execution, such fire, yet with such 
 poise and precision, as she had played it that after- 
 noon? Had he not told her, after the concert was over, 
 that it would be a "pi-tee" and a "cr-rime" not to
 
 THE PETTY DETAILS 3 
 
 give to the world the benefit of her great talent? She 
 must become the great "artiste." 
 
 "The great artiste!" With another little thrill of 
 ecstasy she hugged the name to herself. 
 
 "Sue! Sister Sue!" It was May's voice calling up 
 the stairway. 
 
 With a quiver that was not a thrill of ecstasy the 
 girl behind the closed door stiffened, her chin up, her 
 breath suspended. 
 
 "Sue! Sue! Where are you?" The voice was nearer 
 now, and carried a note of impatience. Behind the 
 door Sister Sue's chin lifted with her breath the frac- 
 tion of an inch. "Sue Sue!" How tired she was of 
 that eternal "Sue Sue!" It would be Susanna on 
 the programmes Susanna Gilmore. 
 
 She was giving herself another little ecstatic hug 
 when from the hall just the other side of the door 
 came May's voice again. 
 
 "Sue! Sue! Why, where are you?" Then, half 
 under her breath, in the voice of a hurt, disappointed 
 child: "Why, I thought I saw you come in!" 
 
 Out in the hall the footsteps had plainly come to a 
 pause at the open door opposite which led to Sister 
 Sue's bedroom. The voice called again " Sue Sue ! " 
 
 Across the face of the girl behind the door swept a 
 look of worried distress. 
 
 "Sue Sue! Sister Sue!" The steps were hurry- 
 ing down the hall now toward the stairway that led 
 to the third floor. "Are you up there?" 
 
 Sister Sue turned, her hand outstretched toward 
 the doorknob. Then, irresolutely, she drew it back.
 
 4 SISTER SUE 
 
 Outside, the steps came hurrying by the door again, 
 and on down the stairway to the floor below. From 
 there, faintly, came the insistent voice again, ques- 
 tioning a maid in the hallway, calling to Gordon in 
 the den, complaining to the master of the house in the 
 library that Sister Sue was n't anywhere not any- 
 where yet she surely came in not ten minutes ago. 
 And now where was she? 
 
 Where was she, indeed ! Up in the blue-room guest- 
 chamber, pacing back and forth, back and forth, 
 now stopping with her breath suspended to listen to 
 the questioning voice downstairs, now resuming her 
 march with a gesture of joyous abandonment to the 
 inner voices of "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! 
 Encore! Encore!" 
 
 But it was not for long. Anybody who knew Sister 
 Sue would know that it would not be for long. With 
 a little shrug and a resigned upflinging of her two 
 hands, Sister Sue softly opened the door, slipped out 
 into the hall, and walked toward the stairway. 
 
 After all, it did n't matter, it did n't really matter. 
 It was n't as if she were n't going to be free! 
 
 In the lower hall the two sisters came face to face. 
 
 "Why, Sue, where have you been? I've looked 
 everywhere for you!" 
 
 Sister Sue laughed lightly. 
 
 "Not everywhere because you didn't look 
 where I was." 
 
 "But where were you?" 
 
 ' In the land of nowhere, anywhere in the land of 
 maybe," chuckled Sister Sue. Then, with a sudden
 
 THE PETTY DETAILS 5 
 
 stiffening of her whole slender self, she amended: 
 "No, not may-be. In the land of will-bel I was lost 
 in the land of will-be, my dear sister. Ever been 
 there?" 
 
 "Sue, of course not! Nor you, either. What do 
 you mean? What a case you are, Sue Gilmore, when 
 you get started! But, listen. I wanted you. Beth 
 Henderson wants me to motor over to the Club for 
 dinner. Phil Chandler and Bert Hammond are going. 
 Oh, Mrs. Henderson is going, too, of course," she 
 added hastily, in response to the dawning refusal on 
 her sister's face. 
 
 "But, May, dear, you know I don't like " began 
 Sister Sue doubtfully, only to break off with: "What 
 does your father say?" 
 
 "Says to ask you, of course. He always says that, 
 you know he does. And, Sue, you will let me go, 
 won't you?" 
 
 "But, May, you know I don't like to have you with 
 Bert" 
 
 "But I'm not going to be with him. I'm going to 
 be with Beth and her mother. And it'll just spoil 
 everything if I can't go. They said it would Beth 
 and Mrs. Henderson. Sue, please!" 
 
 Still Sue hesitated. 
 
 "Of course, if Mrs. Henderson is going," she began 
 frowningly. 
 
 The other did not wait for her to finish. With a 
 bearlike hug and a rapturous kiss she effectually 
 snapped the sentence off short. 
 
 "Oh, Sue, you're a duck! I knew you would! I'll
 
 6 SISTER SUE 
 
 go tell them right away that I can." And with a 
 whirl of silken skirts she was off to the telephone. 
 
 Behind her, Sister Sue still frowned. 
 
 "Yes, she knew I would. That's exactly it she 
 knew I would," sighed Sister Sue to herself. "I al- 
 ways do." 
 
 "Oh, Sis, are you there?" It was Gordon calling 
 from the little den at the right of the stairway. 
 
 "Yes, I'm here. Well, Gordon, what can I do for 
 you?" Was there an ironic sweetness in the voice 
 as the questioner crossed the threshold of the den? 
 Perhaps. Yet if there was, it apparently passed quite 
 over the blond head of the good-looking youth lolling 
 back in the morris chair. He blew a smoke-ring before 
 he answered. 
 
 "Lots. Sis, you 're a peach ! " 
 
 "Of course! Well, what is it?" 
 
 He twisted in his chair, and threw a quick glance 
 into her face. Even Gordon could not fail to notice 
 the ironic sweetness this time. 
 
 "Now, Sis, you've no need to speak nor look like 
 that. I guess I feel as bad as you do." 
 
 "But what is it? And Gordon that ciga- 
 rette!" 
 
 He stirred again restlessly. 
 
 "Yes, I know. But, it's the first to-day honest! 
 And I had to have something. You see I I 'm 
 up against it again. That's all." 
 
 "Oh, Gordon, not that! Not so soon over your 
 allowance," cried the girl, dropping herself helplessly 
 into the chair nearest the door.
 
 THE PETTY DETAILS 7 
 
 "But, Sue, you know how mean and small it 
 is?" 
 
 "To go in debt yes," interpolated the girl. 
 
 The youth's chin came up with a dignity as haughty 
 as the recumbency of his position would allow. 
 
 "I was referring to the allowance," he vouchsafed 
 coldly. 
 
 Unexpectedly Sister Sue laughed. 
 
 "Oh, Gordon, Gordon, what a boy you are! I can't 
 stay vexed with you, and you know it. But really, 
 dear, it is serious. I know it is n't large, but it's quite 
 large enough for a boy of sixteen. Now how much 
 do you owe?" 
 
 The youth drew a long breath and came energeti- 
 cally erect. 
 
 "There, that's the stuff! Now we can get some- 
 where. Well, I owe Ted a couple of dollars, and Harry 
 Prescott five, and Bert Hammond ' 
 
 "Hammond! Gordon, you don't owe him! 1 ' 
 
 "Not much. Only four or five dollars, and " 
 
 "Four or five dollars!" groaned the girl; then, 
 sharply, she began to speak with stern decision. 
 
 " Gordon, this thing has got to stop ! I will not have 
 you owing money to those boys." 
 
 "There, that's the stuff! That's it exactly," cried 
 the boy triumphantly. "I knew you would n't want 
 me to owe them like this. That's why I told you. I 
 knew you 'd help me pay them back go to Dad, you 
 know, and explain. Dad '11 do anything for you. You 
 know he will." 
 
 She shook her head slowly.
 
 8 SISTER SUE 
 
 "Gordon, this is not going to do. You've got to go 
 to Father yourself this time." 
 
 The young fellow paled visibly. 
 
 "Sister Sue, you never would! You wouldn't! 
 You would n't desert a fellow like this ! You know 
 what I'd get." 
 
 "I know what you would n't get. You would n't 
 get the money." 
 
 "That's just it that's just it!" he cried fever- 
 ishly. "And if I can't get the money I can't pay back 
 the boys; and then I '11 still be owing them. Don't you 
 see? Bert Hammond and the rest." 
 
 A swift spasm of abhorrence crossed her face. 
 Very plainly she did "see." 
 
 "And so I know you'll do it, Sister Sue," he urged, 
 following up his advantage. "I know you'll do it!" 
 
 There was no answer. Motionless she sat, looking 
 fixedly straight ahead at nothing. After a long min- 
 ute she sighed and rose to her feet. 
 
 "Oh, yes, she'll do it. Sister Sue will do it," she 
 said a bit grimly. At the door she turned. 
 
 "Gordon, you must understand. I'll do it this 
 time, but not again not again." 
 
 "There ain't a-goin' ter be no 'again,'" retorted 
 Gordon, with all his old debonair confidence. "Say, 
 Sister Sue, you are a brick!" 
 
 But Sister Sue was already halfway down the hall. 
 
 At the library door she paused. Almost always 
 she paused at that library door. There was something 
 about the fine old room with its paneled walls, beamed 
 ceiling, and crimson draperies that brought a little
 
 THE PETTY DETAILS 9 
 
 catch to Sue's breath it was so beautiful, so alto- 
 gether satisfying. Nowhere in the house was there a 
 room she loved half so well. 
 
 But it was not the enchantment of soft lights and 
 blended colors that brought her feet to a pause to-day 
 though even her worried distress over her present 
 mission did not blind her eyes to the charm of a bit 
 of tooling that flashed gold in the slant rays of the 
 sun across the room. It was the perturbed conscious- 
 ness that she was coming all unprepared to the task 
 before her, and that her own strong disapproval 
 of young Gordon's conduct was a poor foundation 
 upon which to erect a plea for mercy that would be in 
 the least convincing. 
 
 Across the room her father sat in his favorite chair 
 reading. She knew exactly just how resignedly he 
 would lay aside his book, just how impatiently he 
 would pull at his little pointed beard, just how nerv- 
 ously he would tap the toe of his expensively shod 
 foot, while she was telling him her story; and just how 
 irritably he would demand, when she had finished: 
 
 "Well well well! what can / do? Why do 
 you come to me? Can't you tell him that he must 
 take the consequences of his own act?" 
 
 She knew it all. However, it must be done, of 
 course. And with a sigh she entered the room. 
 
 "Father, I" 
 
 At the sound of her voice the man sitting by the 
 window turned with a quick exclamation. 
 
 "There ! So you 're here at last, Sue. They Ve been 
 looking for you both of them. Katy wanted you,
 
 10 SISTER SUE 
 
 too. And, by the way, I wanted you myself. I 
 wanted to tell you to speak to Katy. My toast again 
 this morning it was burned. And my steak 
 can't you make her stop sending it to the table dried 
 into a piece of tough leather? If you 'd been down to 
 breakfast yourself this morning " 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know, Father. I'm sorry," explained 
 the girl hurriedly. "I had mine early, and did n't 
 wait for you. I was going to the conservatory. But 
 I 'm sorry about the steak and the toast. I I '11 
 speak to Katy. But, first, I want to say " 
 
 "And while you are about it," interrupted the man, 
 "I wish you'd speak to Mary about the sheets on my 
 bed. She does n't tuck them in at all. They pull out 
 every night. Thank you, my dear. I knew you'd 
 attend to it," he finished, turning back to his book. 
 
 Irresolutely the girl opened her lips. Then, with a 
 little shrug of her shoulders, she faced about. 
 
 "I'll go and speak to Katy and Mary right away," 
 she said, aloud. To herself she sighed, as she left the 
 room: "It's no use now for the other. I'll have to 
 wait for that." 
 
 Downstairs she spoke to Katy about the toast that 
 
 *EB burned and the beefsteak that was like tough 
 
 eather. She spoke also to Mary about the sheets 
 
 hat would not stay tucked. But before she could say 
 
 .0 either what was on her own mind, both had spoken 
 
 to her. Katy said the laundress had not come, and 
 
 what should she do. Mary said that there was no 
 
 more toilet soap in the house, and where should she 
 
 get some.
 
 THE PETTY DETAILS 11 
 
 It was not until after dinner that Sister Sue found 
 a few moments quite to herself. Her father, after a 
 somewhat stormy interview and a grudging consent to 
 leniency as to his son Gordon's misdemeanor, was 
 dozing over the evening paper. Gordon was out with 
 some of his friends. May had gone on the motor ride. 
 Katy and Mary were busy with their own affairs. 
 
 With a sigh of content Sister Sue dropped herself 
 on to the couch in the living-room and gave herself 
 up to blissful reveries. 
 
 After all, it did n't matter not really matter 
 all those tiresome details of soap and laundress, motor 
 parties and overrun allowances. It was n't as if it 
 was to continue always as if she had nothing else 
 all her life to look forward to. Heaven knew she had 
 had no small amount of it in the past. Not but that 
 she had been glad to do everything she could, of 
 course. Only it had been Sister Sue, Sister Sue, 
 Sister Sue, for everything, all her life, especially since 
 the little mother had died six years before; and some- 
 times it did seem as if 
 
 Like a panorama the years of her childhood and 
 girlhood unrolled before her. 
 
 She had been fourteen when her mother had died. 
 May had been twelve, and Gordon ten. But even 
 before that, she had seemed to have no will or way of 
 her own. Always it had been: "Yes, May, your sis- 
 ter Sue will give it to you"; or, "Yes, Gordon, your 
 sister Sue will do it for you." And Sister Sue had 
 found herself acquiescing, whether it were to give up 
 the larger apple or to untie an obstinate shoestring.
 
 12 SISTER SUE 
 
 Ever since she could remember, it had been like that. 
 Sister Sue was the eldest. Sister Sue would give up, 
 of course. And Sister Sue had given up. 
 
 Then the little mother had died. That was six years 
 ago. More than ever, after that, had Sister Sue 
 "given up." It seemed to her, as she thought of it 
 now, that for the last six years she had done noth- 
 ing but give up. Never was it what she wanted. It 
 was what May wanted, or Gordon wanted, or Father 
 wanted, or even what Katy and Mary in the kitchen 
 wanted! Her time, her thoughts, her wishes they 
 had been as nothing compared to the time, thoughts, 
 and wishes of everybody else in the house. Why, it 
 had got so that they all thought nobody could do 
 anything for them but Sister Sue. They had just got 
 into the habit of thinking that Sister Sue must do 
 everything. Even outside, among their friends, she 
 was known as "Sister Sue," and was often called so. 
 
 And it was not right. It was a shame. Was she 
 never to have a chance to live her own life? Why, 
 here she was twenty years old ! If ever she was going 
 to do big things, real things, worth-while things that 
 counted, she must be about it. And Signor Bartoni 
 had said that she could do them. He had said that 
 her talent was wonderful; that it would be a "pi-tee" 
 and a "cr-rime" not to give it to the world. What 
 would he say if he knew that that wonderful talent 
 was tied to a missing cake of soap or a laundress that 
 did not come? Would he not call that a "pi-tee" and 
 a "cr-rime"? 
 
 And it was a pity, and it was a crime. And it had
 
 THE PETTY DETAILS 13 
 
 got to stop. Not but that she loved them her 
 father, May, Gordon. She loved them dearly. She 
 loved them so well that sometimes she felt almost 
 ashamed that she should fret and fume under their 
 constant demands upon her. But she could love them 
 still, just as well, and yet be free. She could love them 
 better even, perhaps. For would she not meanwhile 
 be doing something to make them proud of her? 
 Would she not be doing something that would be a 
 real credit to them? 
 
 And it was not as if they really needed her. Some 
 one else could see that May wore her rubbers and 
 that the soap was bought. There was Cousin Abby. 
 For years now she had almost begged to come. Cousin 
 Abby was forty, a widow alone in the world, and 
 poor; and she knew all about rubbers, and soap, and 
 such things. And she wanted to come. To be sure, 
 they had thought that they did not want Cousin 
 Abby (her father, May, and Gordon) ; but that was 
 just because they preferred to let Sister Sue do it. 
 They always preferred to let Sister Sue do every- 
 thing. It never seemed to enter their heads that it 
 was just possible Sister Sue might prefer to do some- 
 thing else, sometimes. 
 
 But they would understand she was sure they 
 would understand when she told them. And they 
 would be pleased and proud and glad when they knew 
 what Signer Bartoni had said. They would be willing 
 to have Cousin Abby then. She knew they would. 
 
 And there was Martin Kent. She was not so sure of 
 Martin. He might not be so pleased. He did not care
 
 14 SISTER SUE 
 
 much for music. Besides, the only way she could 
 please him was to say she would marry him right 
 away. And she did not want to do that. Marry him 
 right away, indeed ! Why, that would be but more 
 of the same thing she had been having merely a 
 change in the name of the laundress and in the label 
 on the cake of soap. That was all. Not but that she 
 expected to be married sometime, of course. By 
 and by, after she had become the great artiste, and 
 had made them all proud of her time enough then 
 to get married. There was no hurry. 
 
 She would have to study, of course. Oh, how she 
 would have to study and practice! But she would not 
 mind that. She would love it. And she need not 
 worry about the money for the lessons. Luckily 
 there had always been plenty of money. Besides, 
 after a little she would be earning something herself. 
 She would rather like that, she believed. It must give 
 one such an independent feeling ! 
 
 It only remained then to tell them her father, 
 May, Gordon, and Martin tell them the wonderful 
 future in store for her, the supreme glory she was go- 
 ing to bring to the name of Gilmore when she should 
 have become the great artiste.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 ALL FOR LOVE 
 
 IT was some days before Sister Sue found the oppor- 
 tunity of telling her family. She wanted them all to- 
 gether when she told them, and there seemed to be no 
 appropriate time when they were all together. Be- 
 sides, of late, her father had appeared to be more than 
 usually nervous and irritable, for some unexplained 
 reason; and she never liked to tell him disturbing 
 things when he was in an unresponsive mood. And he 
 certainly was in that sort of mood now. He seemed 
 to be worried or anxious over something. It might be 
 business. She rather suspected that it was. 
 
 She could not even tell Martin. As it happened, 
 Martin was away for a week. There was nothing to 
 do, therefore, but to wait. And as patiently as she 
 could Sister Sue set herself to this new task, daily 
 comforting herself with "Oh, well, it is n't as if it was 
 n't going to come sometime!" 
 
 Then, almost as a surprise, the night before Mar- 
 tin Kent's expected arrival, came her chance: a furi- 
 ous storm was raging outside, and the Gilmore family 
 were all together in the library. 
 
 For five minutes Sister Sue looked a little fearfully 
 into the faces of her assembled family; then, taking 
 her courage in both hands, she spoke. 
 
 She told them first of what Signer Bartoni had 
 said. She enlarged upon the wonder of such praise
 
 16 SISTER SUE 
 
 from such a source, and she let them see plainly how 
 much it meant to her. She told them then of her 
 determination: she was to fit herself for a concert 
 pianist. She was to try to prove herself worthy of 
 Signer Bartoni's high commendation. She was going 
 to make of herself something really worth while. 
 
 With a little breathless choke in her voice she 
 stopped. Some way it sounded to her very crude, 
 very commonplace, now that she had said it. She had 
 intended to say much more. She had hoped to bring 
 to their eyes the wondrous vision of herself bowing to 
 enthralled multitudes, and to their ears the intoxicat- 
 ing clamor of ' ' Encore ! Encore ! Susanna Gilmore ! " 
 But she knew that she had done very far from that. 
 
 She felt suddenly shy and embarrassed. She was 
 tempted almost to run away upstairs to her room. 
 Though she realized at once that she could not do 
 that, of course. There was yet more that she must 
 say much more. She had not yet spoken at all 
 of Cousin Abby. With that little breathless choke, 
 therefore, she waited now for some sort of reply to 
 what she had already said. 
 
 There was a blank half-minute of silence that 
 seemed to Sister Sue an eternity. Then from her 
 father came this: 
 
 "You mean you are going to turn yourself into a 
 
 - a show girl on the stage?" 
 
 The tension snapped, and Sister Sue laughed a bit 
 hysterically. 
 
 "Not exactly thai, Father not in pink tights 
 and spangles," she twinkled; then in a very different
 
 ALL FOR LOVE 17 
 
 voice, just above her breath, she stammered: "I'm 
 going to be a great artiste." It was out, with all 
 the hushed awe and glorified elation of youth's am- 
 bition. 
 
 There was another benumbed silence; then May 
 began doubtfully: 
 
 "But do you think you will like that on the 
 stage so?" 
 
 "Of course she'll like it! " cut in Gordon, with sud- 
 den vehemence. "And I, for one, say, 'Bully for you, 
 Sis!' We're going to be proud of you." 
 
 "Thank you, Gordon." Sister Sue's eyes glistened. 
 "Of course I hope you will, but we can't tell about 
 that yet; but I'm going to try, oh, you don't know 
 how I'm going to study and practice and work." 
 She said this looking straight into Gordon's boyishly 
 sympathetic eyes. Then, with a little relieved sigh, 
 she turned to the others. "And so I'll write to Cousin 
 Abby right away, and see how soon she'll come," she 
 finished. 
 
 It was like a match to gunpowder. 
 
 "Cousin Abby!" ejaculated three amazed, angry 
 voices. Then her father demanded: "Come here? 
 What do you mean?" 
 
 The amazed anger of those three voices had not 
 been lost on Sister Sue; but she gave no sign that 
 she understood its meaning. 
 
 "Why, come here to live, of course to see to 
 things, you know," she retorted cheerily. 
 
 "Nonsense!" ejaculated her father. 
 
 "But we don't want Cousin Abby here ! " cried May.
 
 18 SISTER SUE 
 
 "I guess no/" emphasized Gordon. 
 
 "But you'll have to have her," reasoned Sister Sue. 
 She still spoke cheerily, though her voice had lost 
 some of its assurance. "You'll have to have some 
 one, and I should think she would be the best of 
 anybody." 
 
 "But we don't want any one but you," spoke up 
 May. 
 
 "We don't need any one," declared Gordon. 
 
 "Come, come," interposed the father sharply; 
 "there is no need of going through all this again. We 
 settled it once for all some time ago. We don't want 
 Cousin Abby nor need her. What is more, we're 
 not going to have her. We 're doing very well as we 
 are, Sue. Now let us hear no more about it." 
 
 "That's just it. We don't want any one but our 
 Sister Sue," beamed Gordon, settling back in his 
 chair as at the satisfactory conclusion of a somewhat 
 troublesome matter. 
 
 Sister Sue wet her lips, but her voice, as she spoke, 
 still carried a resolute cheeriness. 
 
 "Oh, but you don't understand. I shan't be here, 
 you see." 
 
 Her three auditors sat suddenly erect. 
 
 "You won't be here! What do you mean?" de- 
 manded her father. 
 
 "Why, I told you. I 'm going to study. I Ve got to 
 go away. I 'm going to New York first, then I want to 
 go abroad." 
 
 'Nonsense!" cried the man, with an impatient 
 gesture.
 
 ALL FOR LOVE 19 
 
 "Why, Sister Sue, you can't go away!" expostu- 
 lated May. "Who'll keep house for us?" 
 
 "Cousin Abby. That's what I'm telling you." 
 
 It came then the storm of protest. They under- 
 stood at last. They were not only indignant and 
 angry, but they were amazed and grieved. Not have 
 Sister Sue at home with them? W T hy, it was absurd, 
 unthinkable! Why, they'd always had Sister Sue. 
 They shouldn't think she'd wish to go any- 
 where, when they wanted her so at home! 
 
 Sister Sue wet her lips once more, and began all 
 over again at the beginning. She tried to make them 
 see what it meant to her what Signer Bartoni had 
 said; how her whole future happiness was bound up 
 in this great wish of hers; how this was her one chance 
 to make something really worth while of her life. 
 
 In the end she won a grudging consent that is, if 
 it might be called consent. Her father, with a frown 
 and an impatient gesture, sprang to his feet, mutter- 
 ing as he left the room: "Oh, well, well, have it your 
 own way. I've too many troubles of my own to think 
 of to try to settle yours." 
 
 Gordon, with no sympathy in his eyes now, and no 
 "Bully for you!" on his lips, struck a match with Un- 
 necessary vehemence. "Of course, have it your own 
 way!" he snapped, as he, too, rose to his feet and left 
 the room. 
 
 Wistful-eyed and quivering-lipped, Susanna Gil- 
 more turned to her sister. 
 
 "May, you think " she began. But May in- 
 terrupted her sharply, as she, also, rose to her feet.
 
 20 SISTER SUE 
 
 "It 's just as well, perhaps, that I do not say what 
 I think," she vouchsafed coldly. 
 
 The next moment Sister Sue was alone. 
 
 For a long time she sat motionless, her eyes on the 
 dancing flames on the hearth; then, as if to a refuge, 
 she flew to the piano in the music-room. In fifteen 
 minutes she came away, rested, refreshed, serene, and 
 at peace once more with the world. 
 
 It was always like that with Sister Sue. Let her 
 have but ten minutes of improvising at the piano, 
 and whether it was joy, sorrow, anger, or a fearsome 
 questioning that had strained her emotions to the 
 breaking point, those ten minutes of vibrant fellow- 
 ship with the ivory keys had brought back her poise 
 and serenity of soul. Sister Sue's family irreverently 
 called it "taking it out on the piano." And it was 
 always left for Gordon to add with a roguish twinkle 
 that they were mighty glad the piano was there, just 
 the same! 
 
 Sister Sue wrote to Cousin Abby that evening. To 
 herself she said she wanted to do it before she lost her 
 courage, and before they her family lost theirs. 
 The letter written, she went to bed, but not to sleep. 
 For long hours she lay awake, half the time assuring 
 herself over and over that she was not an unfeeling, 
 selfish wretch, unfilial and unsisterly, to want to live 
 her own life; the other half spent in trying to plan 
 what she should say to Martin Kent. 
 
 Martin would not like it, of course. She was quite 
 sure of that. He would much prefer that she should 
 tell him she had decided to set an early marriage date.
 
 ALL FOR LOVE 21 
 
 But she had already told him that she should not do 
 that. As if she were going to tie herself down at twenty 
 years of age to what would be merely another laun- 
 dress and another brand of soap ! After she had made 
 a name for herself that would be a different matter. 
 
 So Martin would not be exactly pleased with what 
 she was going to tell him. She knew that. But he 
 would not be like her father, or Gordon, or even May. 
 She was sure of that. He would show interest and 
 sympathy, and be proud and excited and glad when 
 she told him what Signor Bartoni had said. He al- 
 ways praised her playing, and said he thought she had 
 wonderful talent. So he would understand and not 
 object not really object to her wanting to make 
 the most of that talent, she was sure. 
 
 Sister Sue went to sleep then. In her ears once more 
 was ringing the applause of uncounted audiences, 
 and in her eyes was the vision of herself bowing her 
 thanks to the clamorous "Encore! Encore! Susanna 
 Gilmore! Encore!" 
 
 Martin Kent called the next evening. 
 
 Martin Kent was engaged in writing the Great 
 American Novel. That is, he said it was going to be 
 that when it was finished. He had told Sue several 
 times that it was going to be by far the best thing he 
 had ever done. 
 
 Martin Kent already had several novels to his 
 credit or discredit, as one chose to look at it. They 
 were more or less erratic, and they had not sold well 
 not that this disturbed their author, however. 
 Martin Kent snapped his fingers at the public taste,
 
 22 SISTER SUE 
 
 with a disdainful "Who cares?" and a merry "I 
 should worry!" To be sure, there were those who 
 wondered why he did not worry, for certainly his vis- 
 ible means of support were very slender. He was 
 known to have only a small annuity aside from what 
 his books brought him. Others one of whom was 
 Gordon Gilmore said that they understood quite 
 well why he did not worry: he did n't need to if he 
 was going to marry Susanna Gilmore ! which was 
 a most unkind insinuation to make, especially con- 
 cerning one who was at that very moment engaged in 
 writing that Great American Novel which would, of 
 course, sell away into the hundreds of thousands. 
 But perhaps Gordon and some others had not quite so 
 much faith in this Great American Novel. 
 
 Sue Gilmore had faith in it; so, too, had her young 
 sister May. May was particularly interested: was 
 not she herself writing stories also or trying to? 
 Was not she going to write the Great American 
 Novel sometime? Of course she was! May just 
 knew this novel of Martin Kent's was going to be 
 a wonderful success! May did not realize, perhaps, 
 to what extent that confidence on her part had to 
 do with the author's black eyes, ready smile, and 
 debonair self generally. May regarded her future 
 brother-in-law as the most thrill ingly handsome man 
 she had even seen and May's experience was not 
 limited. She was familiar with the features of nearly 
 every Adonis of the screen and the footlights. As for 
 John Gilmore John Gilmore was not a movie fan, 
 neither was he thrilled at the sight of Adonises in
 
 ALL FOR LOVE 23 
 
 everyday life. He knew little of the Great American 
 Novel, and he cared less. He knew little of Martin 
 Kent and perhaps he cared less also. That the 
 young author had once said something to him about 
 wanting to marry his daughter, Susanna, he remem- 
 bered perfectly. (He had answered: "Well, well, 
 what do I know about it? Ask your sister " then 
 he had caught himself just in time and finished 
 "Ask the young lady herself, sir." He remembered 
 that.) He knew now, too, that there was some sort of 
 an "understanding" between the two young people. 
 But the fact never loomed large in his thoughts, and 
 carried only a vague consciousness of something that 
 was possibly to happen in the dim and distant future. 
 To-night, when Martin Kent called, Sister Sue was 
 alone in the living-room. John Gilmore was closeted 
 in the library with two men who had come on busi- 
 ness soon after dinner; and May and Gordon were off 
 for the evening. Sister Sue was glad that there was a 
 prospect of having the room quite to themselves. She 
 had much that she wanted to say to Martin Kent; and 
 she did not want to be interrupted. She knew, too, 
 that first she must listen to what Martin Kent himself 
 had to say of his own doings. Martin Kent always 
 spoke first and listened afterwards. Not but that he 
 was entertaining Martin Kent was always a good 
 talker. It was just that it was his way to start in 
 with a full account of his own affairs first, as if they 
 were the most interesting of any subject that could be 
 broached. For that matter, they were, many times. 
 Martin Kent was always having unusual experiences.
 
 4 SISTER SUE 
 
 To-night he had been away a week "getting at- 
 mosphere," he said, for his novel. He had spent the 
 entire time in a little Vermont town in the Green 
 Mountains, and he had many stories to tell of the 
 splendid "copy" he had found there. Then he spoke 
 of the story itself. 
 
 "And it's going to be the very best thing I ever 
 did," he cried, his face alight. 
 
 "I'm glad. And and you look very happy, 
 Martin," the girl said a little wistfully. 
 
 "I am happy. Who would n't be happy? Are n't 
 we always happy when we know we are doing our very 
 best?" 
 
 It was Sue's chance, and she grasped it. 
 
 "That's it that's it, exactly," she interposed a 
 little feverishly; "and that's why I want to do my 
 best." 
 
 The man laughed lightly. 
 
 "And so you do, my dear; you always do your 
 best." 
 
 Impatiently she brushed this aside. 
 
 "No, no, you don't understand. I mean I want 
 to do my best in my music." 
 
 "And so you do, I say." 
 
 "But I want to do better!" 
 
 "All right! That's a laudable wish, I'm sure," he 
 bantered. 
 
 Impatiently again she brushed his words aside. 
 And then she told him hurriedly, impetuously, 
 with little half-finished sentences that were eloquent 
 of suppressed fear and longing. And when she had
 
 ALL FOR LOVE 25 
 
 finished she sat back palpitatingly, her eager eyes on 
 Martin Kent's face. She was so sure Martin Kent 
 would understand and sympathize! And yet 
 
 And Martin Kent understood but he did not 
 sympathize. He laughed first, and called the idea 
 silly and absurd, and he asked why in the world, with 
 her money, she should care to take up a thing like 
 that. When he found her still unmoved he became 
 stern and dignified, and grieved; and he reproached 
 her bitterly that she should prefer a public career to 
 a life of peace and love under his sheltering care. 
 
 "But, Martin, I haven't said that I wouldn't 
 marry you sometime," she argued, in response to this. 
 "I've just told you; I want first to try my wings. I 
 want to do something really worth while. I want to 
 make you all proud of me. I've got it in me! I know 
 I've got it in me, to make people see what I see and 
 hear what I hear when I play. Oh, Martin, don't you 
 see?" 
 
 "I see that you don't love me," said Martin 
 Kent passionately. 
 
 He tried pleading then. With all his emotional 
 power and his command of words, he appealed to her 
 heart and to her sympathies. He pictured her life, 
 barren and wasted, without love. He pictured his 
 own work, come to naught, a failure, because of the 
 lack of her love and her presence as an incentive. He 
 pictured themselves grown old with love and youth 
 lost forever. As he drew it, it was a picture calcu- 
 lated to strike cold terror to the stoutest heart. 
 
 Sister Sue, caught up in the whirlwind of his woo-
 
 26 SISTER SUE 
 
 ing, was lifted to an exaltation of surrender and self- 
 sacrifice that saw only love and the world well lost. 
 And Martin Kent went away that evening with her 
 promise to marry him in July. 
 
 "I never dreamed he cared so much for me," she 
 sighed, as she settled herself to sleep that night. 
 "And it is nice to be loved like that; and of course 
 such love really is the greatest thing in the world ! " 
 
 Just as she was dozing off, another thought came. 
 
 "I suppose I shan't need Cousin Abby now. 
 He said I could live right along here just the same 
 after we were married. But oh, well, if she comes, 
 let her come. I shan't mind. It'll take some care 
 away from me; and I shall want more time to myself 
 when I'm married, anyway," she murmured happily.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 COUSIN ABBY 
 
 SISTER SUE was still on the heights of self-surrender 
 and exalted sacrifice the next morning. It was still all 
 for love and the world well lost, with her. But she 
 decided not to tell her family of the change in her 
 plans until Cousin Abby's letter should have arrived, 
 settling beyond doubt whether or not Cousin Abby 
 herself was coming. 
 
 She had not long to wait. Cousin Abby's reply 
 came promptly, almost by return mail. Cousin Abby 
 would be delighted to come. She was not only glad 
 to be of service to them, but she was pleased, she was 
 sure, that dear Susanna was going to improve her 
 wonderful talent and make a great name for herself. 
 She could come now, any time; just as soon as they 
 wanted her. And she signed herself devotedly theirs, 
 Cousin Abby Herford. 
 
 Sister Sue winced a little and bit her lip over the 
 "wonderful talent" and the "great name." But in- 
 stantly she scornfully asked herself what was a won- 
 derful talent or a great name compared to love real 
 love? True, at the same time she put both her hands 
 to her ears as if to shut out an insistent something 
 that was clamoring to be heard. And she hurried very 
 fast to tell her family that she had given up her ca- 
 reer, and that she and Martin Kent were going to 
 be married in July.
 
 28 SISTER SUE 
 
 Sister Sue did not wait to tell her family all at once 
 to-day. She took them as she found them, one or 
 two at a time; and she gave her information hurriedly, 
 almost feverishly, with little catches of her breath in 
 her throat. 
 
 Their manner of receiving it was characteristic in 
 each case. 
 
 Her sister May clasped her hands to her breast and 
 drew an ecstatic sigh with her gaze 'on the ceiling 
 as she cried: "Oh, Sister Sue, how perfectly lovely! 
 And you'll have a church wedding, of course, and I'll 
 be maid of honor! What shall I wear? Oh, you lucky 
 girl ! I think Martin Kent is positively the handsom- 
 est man I ever saw, and so do all the girls. They're 
 simply crazy over him! Sue, Sister Sue, what shall 
 I wear?" But Sister Sue was already halfway 
 down the stairway: Gordon's clear whistle of the 
 latest bit of ragtime had sounded from the hall 
 below. 
 
 Gordon received the news of Sister Sue's coming 
 marriage with a smile and a shrug. 
 
 "I expected as much. All right, Sis, I wish you joy. 
 He's a lucky dog all right, all right!" 
 
 It was two days before Sister Sue found a chance to 
 tell her father. When he was not away, or at the tele- 
 phone, or closeted with some man in the library, he 
 was so irritable and so obviously concerned with his 
 own affairs, that she did not like to broach the sub- 
 ject. And when she did tell him she had to repeat 
 her words before she penetrated his absorbed absent- 
 mindedness. Even then she elicited only an abstracted
 
 COUSIN ABBY 29 
 
 "Yes, yes; well, I'm glad, I'm sure," as he got up to 
 go into the library. 
 
 It was left for Gordon to precipitate matters by 
 saying that same night at the dinner table: 
 
 "Oh, by the way, Sister Sue, of course Cousin Abby 
 is n't coming now, I take it." 
 
 "But she is," smiled the girl. "I've had a letter, 
 and she'll come at any time, and be glad to." 
 
 "You bet she would!" Gordon was still smiling. 
 "But of course she won't have to, now. We don't 
 need her." 
 
 "No, of course not," interposed May; "for of course 
 you'll live here, Sue. You said you were going to." 
 
 "You bet she 's going to live here," cut in Gordon 
 with a sly laugh. 
 
 "Certainly I'm going to live here." Sister Sue's 
 chin had lifted a little. Her eyes were meeting Gor- 
 don's challenging glance with a flash of vague an- 
 noyance. "Martin said he would n't think of taking 
 me away." 
 
 "You bet he would n't!" chuckled Gordon, again 
 mischievously. But when his sister's eyes flashed an- 
 other questioning glance of annoyance toward him, 
 he shrugged his shoulders and repeated: "Oh, well, 
 we don't need Cousin Abby now, anyway." 
 
 "But I've just told you she is coming," declared 
 Sister Sue, with some spirit. "We asked her, and 
 she's accepted. We've got to have her. Besides, I 
 want her. There's all the shopping and the dress- 
 making, and I shall want some time to myself after 
 I'm married; and "
 
 30 SISTER SUE 
 
 "Will you have the bridesmaids wear pink or 
 blue?" interrupted May eagerly. 
 
 "Oh, you women!" cried Gordon disgustedly, with 
 the blase air of a man of forty. Then, appealingly 
 to his father: "Dad, say something, can't you? We 
 don't need Cousin Abby here, do we? Do we, Dad? " 
 he repeated, as his father still continued to gaze ab- 
 stractedly at the empty plate before him. 
 
 "Eh? What? Cousin Abby? Need her? How 
 should I know?" he frowned irritably. "Ask your 
 sister Sue. I I Ve got other things to think of," he 
 finished as he pushed back his chair and rose to his 
 feet. 
 
 "But, Father, there's the dessert! You're not 
 waiting for dessert," cried his elder daughter. 
 
 "Don't want any. Had enough too much," 
 tossed the man over his shoulder as he disappeared 
 through the doorway. 
 
 At the table the three young people exchanged 
 glances. Dessert and coffee on the table, and the 
 waitress out of the room, May spoke. 
 
 "For pity's sake, what's the matter with Father?" 
 she demanded fretfully. "He's cross as two bears 
 lately." 
 
 "Humph! Make it three," shrugged Gordon dis- 
 respectfully. 
 
 "Hush! I'm ashamed of you," protested Sister 
 Sue, a worried look coming to her face. "Some- 
 thing is plaguing him; I know there is. Or else he's 
 sick." 
 
 "Well, if he's sick, I know who'll have to be his
 
 COUSIN ABBY 31 
 
 nurse and it won't be Cousin Abby," teased Gor- 
 don, his eyes merry. 
 
 "Sue, shall we wear pink or blue, or will you have 
 it a rainbow wedding, with all the colors? " palpitated 
 May. "Oh, have it a rainbow wedding, Sister Sue, 
 please have it a rainbow wedding!" 
 
 "Yes, please have it a rainbow wedding, Sister 
 Sue!" mocked Gordon mischievously. "Only I sup- 
 posed rainbows came after the storm not before 
 it," he chuckled as he rose from the table. 
 
 "For shame, Gordon Gilmore!" remonstrated May 
 indignantly. "As if there was going to be any storm 
 after this wedding ! This is going to be the live-happy- 
 ever-after kind, is n't it, Sister Sue?" 
 
 But Sister Sue only drew a long sigh. Her troubled 
 eyes were still on the doorway through which John 
 Gilmore had disappeared a few moments before. 
 
 "May, something is worrying Father," she said 
 then, in an anxious voice, rising to her feet. "I won- 
 der what it is." 
 
 Two days later she knew. Indeed, the whole world 
 knew their world. For big black headlines, sprawl- 
 ing across the front page of every morning newspaper 
 in the city, told that the old firm of Gilmore and 
 Glode, Bankers and Brokers, had gone to the wall. 
 They told also that Glode had shot himself in his 
 office, and that the senior member, John Gilmore, 
 had collapsed under the strain, and was taken home 
 unconscious. All this they told. But they did not tell 
 of the horror and heartache, the tears, exclamations, 
 and lamentations, the terror by night and the con-
 
 32 SISTER SUE 
 
 fusion by day; the telephoning, telegraphing, mes- 
 sengers, doctors, nurses, hurried consultations, and 
 quick orders. 
 
 At the Gilmores' it was Sister Sue, of course, whose 
 shoulders were under the entire load. It was she who 
 quieted May's hysterics, soothed Katy and Mary, 
 calmed Gordon, gave directions, sent telegrams and 
 messages, and then appeared at her father's bedside 
 to assure his waking consciousness that everything 
 was all right and that he was not to worry one bit. 
 And John Gilmore, his befogged brain not in con- 
 dition to realize anything clearly, recognized the staff 
 upon which he had leaned for the past six years, and 
 obediently leaned back to the comfortable conscious- 
 ness that everything was, indeed, all right. 
 
 From Martin Kent Sister Sue had received first a 
 shocked telephonic inquiry, then a box of beautiful 
 roses and an exquisitely worded note, assuring her of 
 his undying affection and sympathy, and telling her 
 how hard it was for him to refrain from flying on the 
 swift feet of love straight to her side; but that he 
 realized how full her hands and heart must be at this 
 most distressing time, and he would not demand even 
 one moment's attention to add a feather's weight 
 to her already overburdened dear self; that when 
 things were more calm and she was a little rested, 
 he would come. Until that time he was her very de- 
 voted lover, whose thoughts were always with her, 
 even though he was forcing his feet to keep from 
 seeking her. 
 
 The gist of this, only couched in very different
 
 COUSIN ABBY 33 
 
 terms, Sister Sue said to Gordon in response to his 
 irate question, the third day after the crash, as to 
 where Martin Kent was. 
 
 "He will come later. He wrote, and he sent me 
 some beautiful flowers, and said that he wanted to 
 come now, but that he knew I 'd be too busy to see 
 him, and he'd wait till I had more time." 
 
 "Humph!" growled Gordon. "Till you had more 
 time, indeed ! Why does n't he come and do something 
 for you, so you'll have more time?" 
 
 "Nonsense, Gordon! There's nothing he can do, 
 I'm sure," protested Sister Sue, with a haste so pre- 
 cipitate that it looked suspiciously like an old argu- 
 ment already used to convince some one other than 
 the indignant youth now before her. "He he is 
 trying to help the best way he knows, by staying away 
 and not bothering us. He feels so sorry for us ! He 
 wrote a beautiful letter." 
 
 "Humph!" ejaculated Gordon again. "A lot he 
 cares!" 
 
 "Oh, but he does care," interposed May, before 
 her sister could speak. "I saw him yesterday on the 
 Avenue, and he turned and walked with me; and he 
 told me how much he cared, and how sorry he was 
 for us. He's broken-hearted." 
 
 "Well, maybe he is that at the failure of Gilmore 
 and Glode," murmured the young fellow, with an ex- 
 pressive lift of the eyebrow. 
 
 "Indeed he is!" If there was a covert insinuation 
 in Gordon's words, his sister May gave no sign of 
 having noticed it. "And he spoke perfectly beauti-
 
 34 SISTER SUE 
 
 fully of Father, and said how dreadful it must be to 
 see him like this, and how did we endure it! And he 
 said he never could stand seeing suffering like that. 
 He simply couldn't. He's so sensitive, you know! 
 Oh, he feels dreadfully, I know he does," reiterated 
 May, as her brother, with a shrug and a superior 
 smile, turned away. "Does n't he, Sister Sue?" she 
 appealed then to the elder girl. 
 
 "Why, yes, of course! Of course he feels dread- 
 fully," corroborated Sister Sue. "He wrote a beau- 
 tiful letter a perfectly beautiful letter. And he's 
 coming soon to see us. He says he simply can't stay 
 away very long." 
 
 Sister Sue laughed and blushed a little self-con- 
 sciously as she finished speaking. But there was still 
 that curious little precipitate haste in voice and man- 
 ner as if in effort to carry unmistakable conviction. 
 
 It was on the fourth evening after John Gilmore 
 had been carried upstairs to his room that Martin 
 Kent called. He brought red roses again; and he had 
 made his appointment by telephone. His fiancee 
 was awaiting him alone in the living-room. 
 
 He was very tender, very loving. Even the manner 
 in which he kissed her showed how deeply grieved 
 he was for her. And to-night it was not his own affairs 
 that he spoke of first. 
 
 "Now talk to me. Tell me everything. I want to 
 know all your plans, darling," he begged, as they 
 seated themselves before the open fire. 
 
 She drew a long sigh. Her eyes, fixed on his face, 
 were wistful and infinitely weary.
 
 COUSIN ABBY 35 
 
 "It will be good, just to sit and talk a little 
 while," she admitted. "Oh, Martin, I'm so tired! 
 There have been so many things to think of." 
 
 "Of course there have, dear." 
 
 "And there has n't been any one but me to decide 
 everything." 
 
 "I know it. But that's nothing new to you, 
 dear." He was plainly trying to raise her spirits. 
 
 She smiled faintly, even while she sighed. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know. But there's never been any- 
 thing like this before. Oh, Martin, it's so awful, so 
 perfectly awful to see Father." 
 
 The man stirred a little restlessly. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know; it must be very terrible. But 
 just don't don't think of it, darling." 
 
 "But I have to think of it. I have to think what 
 to do." 
 
 " You mean " He waited for her to finish his sen- 
 tence. 
 
 "I mean that everything will have to be different 
 now, of course." 
 
 He threw a quick look into her eyes. 
 
 "You don't mean that you won't marry me?" 
 
 "Oh, no, not that. There '11 be the wedding only 
 it'll be a different wedding." She smiled a little wist- 
 fully, and her voice broke. "It won't be much of 
 a rainbow wedding now, I guess, with pink and blue 
 bridesmaids and flowers and music and a big church 
 full of guests ! I '11 be lucky if if I have a white 
 muslin to get married in." 
 
 "As if I cared about that!" he scoffed. But he did
 
 36 SISTER SUE 
 
 not meet her eyes and he pulled a cigar from his 
 pocket. "You don't mind if I smoke?" 
 
 She shook her head an entirely unnecessary con- 
 cession, for he had already struck the match alight. 
 
 "Of course you know we we Ve lost everything," 
 she said, after a moment's silence. 
 
 "So I judged if the newspapers told the truth," 
 he nodded. "But as if we cared for that!" he ex- 
 claimed, his eyes still turned away. "However, was 
 it really as bad as they made it out?" 
 
 "I'm afraid so. Of course Father can't be ques- 
 tioned. It would n't do any good if we did question 
 him. He doesn't remember much. And it's a 
 mercy he does n't, of course." 
 
 "But won't he ever remember?" 
 
 "Perhaps some things. The doctor says he'll 
 be better than this very soon, and he may live for 
 years. But he probably won't ever be quite right in his 
 mind again. 'T was a nervous breakdown a sort of 
 shock to the nerves, he says. Oh, Martin, it 's awful ! " 
 
 "Yes, I know." Again the man stirred restlessly. 
 "But what what are your plans?" 
 
 "We don't know yet, except that we're to give up 
 everything, of course. That's what folks always do, 
 when they fail, isn't it?" She gave a weary little 
 smile. "Mr. Loring has been out here every day. He 
 knows everything about Father's affairs, you know 
 more than even Father himself, I guess. Anyway, 
 he knows enough. We'll have to give up the house 
 and the cars and everything here, of course." 
 
 "But where will you go?"
 
 I LL BE LUCKY IF IF I HAVE A WHITE MUSLIN 
 TO GET MARRIED IN "
 
 COUSIN ABBY 37 
 
 " Vermont Gilmoreville. Father owns the old 
 Gilmore homestead there, and Mr. Loring says he 
 thinks he can save that for us. It is n't much of a 
 place, but you'd think, to hear Mr. Loring, that 
 't was a gold mine, and we were the luckiest things 
 to have that much. And well, maybe we shall be," 
 she laughed unsteadily. 
 
 "What sort of a place is it? Ever been there?" 
 
 "Not much lately. We used to go when we were 
 children, and we've been there a little two or three 
 times since, in the summer. It's just a big country 
 house in a country town. I must confess I don't 
 exactly anticipate it. And I have n't dared to tell 
 Gordon and May yet." 
 
 "It's a shame, Sue! I declare, I I wouldn't 
 stand it!" cried the man. 
 
 She shook her head with a long sigh. 
 
 "I'm afraid we've got to. It's the only thing, Mr. 
 Loring says. And, anyway" her eyes flashed a 
 sudden spark almost mirthful "I have thought of 
 one advantage. It'll be good for you. You won't 
 have to go away for copy, Martin!" 
 
 With a sudden exclamation the man sprang to his 
 feet. Up and down the room he paced, twice, three 
 times, before he turned squarely about and faced the 
 girl who was looking up at him with eyes that showed 
 a puzzled questioning. 
 
 "Why, Martin, what's the matter?" she cried. 
 "What have I said? You've talked yourself about 
 hunting in country towns for copy!" 
 
 "Sue, I've been thinking." He was still standing,
 
 38 SISTER SUE 
 
 facing her. There was something tense about voice 
 and manner. "I I shan't be there to to watch 
 for copy." 
 
 "Why Martin!" She had leaned forward. She 
 sank back in her seat now, slowly, uncertainly, her 
 eyes still searching his face. 
 
 With an abrupt movement the man came and sat 
 down in the chair at her side. He took both her 
 hands in his and held them fast while he talked. 
 
 "Dearest, I've been thinking. All these days while 
 I 've been away from you I Ve been thinking. I could 
 think then. I can't think when I 'm with you. I only 
 think how I want you. But these last few days I Ve 
 been thinking of what you said to me the other 
 night." 
 
 "The other night?" 
 
 "About your music what you longed to do; 
 what Signor Bartoni said youcould do. And I thought 
 how your dear eyes sparkled and shone, and how your 
 whole face was illumined as you talked. And I thought 
 what a selfish brute I was to attempt to chain your 
 bright spirit to sordid everyday living, just because / 
 wanted you with me. And so I came to-day deter- 
 mined to make amends as best I could. And now I 'm 
 telling you. I take it back all my pleading. You 
 have my full and free consent to spread your wings 
 and fly. You have not only that, but my loving sym- 
 pathy and all my good wishes." 
 
 "You mean ?" Her eyes were incredulous. 
 
 "I mean, go on with your music. Make a name for 
 yourself among the very greatest of earth."
 
 COUSIN ABBY 39 
 
 "But, Martin, I I gave that all up," she fal- 
 tered. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Why, because of of what you said." 
 
 "Exactly ! I knew it!" he triumphed. "And that's 
 just what I mean ! You gave it up because of me, and 
 of what I said; because of my selfishness. And I won't 
 have it. I 've come to my senses now. I was a brute, 
 darling, a selfish brute. But I 'm not one any longer. 
 Why, sweetheart, do you think I'd ever be happy 
 again if I tied you down like that? Never! And now, 
 dear, go out and win. I want you to ! And you can 
 win! You've got it in you! I know you have !" 
 
 He said more, much more. With all the eloquence 
 with which he had pleaded against this "music mad- 
 ness" of hers, he pleaded now for it only now it 
 was not music madness. It was her "God-given mes- 
 sage to the world." 
 
 And his task was easier this time; for it was not 
 nearly so hard to bring back to the girl's ears the 
 "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore!" as it had 
 been to silence those clamorous voices a few short days 
 before. And in the end he won, if Sister Sue's eager 
 face and shining eyes were any criterion until a 
 new thought came to the girl's mind. 
 
 "Oh, but, Martin, I forgot. I can't now," she de- 
 spaired. "There's the money." 
 
 "Have n't you anything of your own?" 
 
 She shook her head sadly. 
 
 "Not a thing except some Magda Silver Mine 
 stock, which is n't worth a cent, Mr. Loring says.
 
 40 SISTER SUE 
 
 Father gave all us children ten thousand shares 
 apiece ages ago. He's never given us money, only 
 an allowance every month. Next year, when I am 
 twenty-one, he was going to give me something. He 
 always said he was. But now Martin, I I can't, 
 after all," she choked. "I have n't the money." 
 
 "Pooh! Earn it!" he challenged her. "As if you 
 could n't teach and study, too ! And it '11 be all the 
 more credit to you when you do reach the goal." 
 
 "But do you really think I could?" 
 
 "I know you could." 
 
 She drew an ecstatic breath, though it ended in a 
 sigh. 
 
 "Of course, there's Father to be looked out for; but 
 he '11 be all right. Cousin Abby 's coming soon, and 
 the doctor says he '11 be up and around the room in 
 a few days, anyway. Besides, Cousin Abby 's a won- 
 derful nurse and housekeeper. She's very capable. 
 I should n't worry a bit with Cousin Abby here I 
 mean there in Gilmoreville." 
 
 "Then that's all right," summed up the man; 
 "and everything's all right. And you forgive me 
 now, for having been such a selfish brute in the first 
 place?" 
 
 "Why, y-yes no I mean, you were n't a selfish 
 brute, Martin." 
 
 The girl spoke feverishly, a little incoherently. Her 
 cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone. She had the 
 air of one who has come out of a shadowy forest into 
 the bright sunlight where the way shows straight be- 
 fore, leading to cloud-kissed heights beyond, and yet
 
 COUSIN ABBY 41 
 
 who cannot quite believe the evidence of eyes and 
 ears. 
 
 "Do you think really I could do it?" she 
 faltered. 
 
 "I know you could," he assured her again. And at 
 his answer the peace of a great content settled upon 
 her countenance. 
 
 It was still there when Martin Kent went away, 
 leaving with her as a good-bye thought: "And we're 
 all going to be so proud of you!" 
 
 Once again through the long night watches Sister 
 Sue lay awake and thought. She was more calm now, 
 more rational. True, the clamorous "Encore! En- 
 core! Susanna Gilmore! Encore!" was still in her ears; 
 but as a bit of ballast to keep her feet on the ground 
 there was the thought that it now must all be brought 
 about by her own efforts. 
 
 No golden-paved, flower-bedecked path of gentle 
 ascent led to the heights for her. Nothing but her own 
 digging would open the path before her now; and 
 every step upward must be quarried out of the rock 
 of opportunity by her own hand. Martin had said 
 that. The girl thought of it now, and thrilled to the 
 challenge of the words. 
 
 Of course she could do it! It just meant teaching 
 while she was studying; and even in the teaching she 
 would be learning. Besides, she had an added incen- 
 tive now. Was it not absolutely necessary that she 
 go out into the world and earn money? And how 
 fortunate that she had this wonderful talent to enable 
 her to do it!
 
 42 SISTER SUE 
 
 And she would make big money when she should 
 have become the great artiste. They always did. 
 She was sure they did. And how she would love to add 
 comforts and luxuries to the home, and make life 
 easier for her father. Poor Father! Oh, how dread- 
 ful it all was ! 
 
 But she would not think of that. She would think of 
 how she was going to be the rescuer. She would think 
 of the tangible help and comfort she was going to 
 bring into the home. And it was so especially won- 
 derful, because all the while she would be doing what 
 she most wanted in all the world to do go on with 
 her beloved music, and make for herself a name and a 
 place that was really worth while. 
 
 And how good of Martin Kent to let her do it, 
 after she had promised to marry him in July ! But, of 
 course, it was only for a time. Later they would be 
 married. But now 
 
 And once more with the inspiriting "Encore! En- 
 core! Susanna Gilmore! Encore!" in her ears, she 
 fell asleep. 
 
 In the morning, at the breakfast-table, Sister Sue 
 broke the news to her brother and sister that they 
 were to go to Gilmoreville to live. The new joy that 
 had come to her had given her courage for the un- 
 pleasant task. Besides, she realized that the time had 
 come when they must know the changes in store for 
 them. Yet her heart beat faster and her lips were dry 
 as she began to speak. 
 
 "Well, children, of course you know that we've got 
 to leave here," she announced cheerfully. "So I sup-
 
 COUSIN ABBY 43 
 
 pose the sooner we begin to prepare for it, the better. 
 The doctor says Father will be up and dressed in a 
 week; and Mr. Loring says we 'd better begin to break 
 up as soon as possible after that." 
 
 "Tough luck!" ejaculated Gordon. 
 
 "I suppose we'll have to go into a snippy little 
 house or flat on some mean little street, and we '11 be 
 so ashamed when folks call," May pouted. 
 
 "Not a bit of it," contradicted Sister %ue, with a 
 jauntiness that was a little forced. "They'll have to 
 come a long way if they 're going to call on us ! We 're 
 going to Gilmoreville." 
 
 "That little country town?" Gordon's voice ex- 
 pressed unbelieving disgust. 
 
 "But of course it's only for the summer," sug- 
 gested May hopefully. 
 
 Sister Sue wet her lips. It was going to be even 
 harder than she thought. 
 
 "We don't know how long it'll have to be," she 
 reasoned, still cheerily. "But however long it's to be 
 we've got to go; so don't fret. Besides, Gilmoreville 
 is a lovely old town, and we may enjoy it. Who 
 knows?" 
 
 "Enjoy it! a stupid little place like that?" dis- 
 dained May. "Why, Sue, you know what that town 
 is. There is n't a thing going on, and we just hated it 
 the last time we were there ! Have we got to go? " she 
 demanded tearfully. 
 
 "Yes, we've got to go." 
 
 "Oh, well, cheer up," cut in Gordon. " There ought 
 to be good fishing and maybe hunting; and the cars '11
 
 44 SISTER SUE 
 
 help. Besides, we'll be off to school winters, anyway. 
 So we shan't be there much, after all." 
 
 "Well, yes, that's so," admitted May, a little less 
 dolefully. "We shan't be there much, after all." 
 
 Sister Sue wet her lips again. She assumed a blithe 
 confidence she was very far from feeling. 
 
 "Oh, come, come, children, this will never do in the 
 world. This is n't a matter for argument. We Ve just 
 got to do it and there 's no use fretting. Furthermore, 
 there won't be any car nor any expensive schools and 
 colleges for either of you just yet. You don't seem 
 to understand. We're poor, I tell you." 
 
 "No car! No college!" cried Gordon. 
 
 "Have we lost everything?" demanded May. 
 
 Sister Sue sighed. 
 
 "I should think so, pretty nearly, by the way Mr. 
 Loring talks. He seems to think we 're lucky to have 
 even Gilmoreville to go to." 
 
 "It's all so blamed sudden," fumed Gordon. 
 
 "To us yes. But I don't think it was to 
 Father." Sister Sue's voice shook a little. "He 's been 
 worried and irritable and absent-minded for quite a 
 while. You know he has." 
 
 "But I don't see how we're going to live at all," 
 quavered May. " I don't see how we 're going to stand 
 it!" 
 
 "But we've got to stand it," declared her sister. 
 "We've just got to! And it may not be so bad, after 
 all. Just think of the ideas for stories you may get 
 there, May! You know Martin loves just such places 
 for copy. We shall have to let Mary go, of course;
 
 COUSIN ABBY 45 
 
 but we'll take Katy. And Cousin Abby's a splendid 
 housekeeper and a good nurse for Father if he should 
 need her. Besides, we'll hope it won't be for long.'* 
 A rosy glow suffused her face, and her eyes grew 
 luminous. "I 'm going to earn money. I have n't told 
 you that. Maybe I can earn enough, after a little, to 
 help about the schools, too, for both of you. Oh, I 
 hope I can!" 
 
 "Earn money! You!" ejaculated Gordon. 
 
 "Yes. I 'm going on with my music. I'm going to 
 do what I wanted to do before, only now I shall 
 have to work a little harder, because I shall have to 
 teach while I'm studying to pay my way. But when 
 I've won out when I get there," she hurried on, 
 ignoring their interrupting ejaculations, "then the 
 money '11 begin to come in instead of going out, and 
 and we shan't have to live in Gilmoreville any 
 longer!" 
 
 She stopped, a little out of breath, her eager, glow- 
 ing eyes seeking first one face, then the other, for ap- 
 preciation, understanding, and answering enthusiasm. 
 But she found neither appreciation nor understand- 
 ing. She found, too, no answering enthusiasm. She 
 found only disappointment, dismay, and vexed an- 
 ger in the faces before her. 
 
 "You don't mean we've got to go to that awful 
 place to live, and have Cousin Abby, too, all alone, 
 and not have you at all?" gasped May. 
 
 "Oh, come, Sis, that's too much to expect any 
 fellow to stand!" exploded Gordon wrathfully. 
 
 "But there's the money I'm going to earn the
 
 46 SISTER SUE 
 
 money. We need the money," urged Sister Sue. 
 "You don't want to forget that." r 
 
 "We're not forgetting Cousin Abby either," cut 
 in Gordon. "We're not forgetting- He stopped 
 short, an odd look coming to his face. "Why, where 
 does Kent come in? I thought you two were going to 
 be married?" 
 
 " We were; but we are n't now till later. He 's going 
 to let me go on with my music and and be a con- 
 cert pianist instead. He knew how I wanted to. He 
 said that he felt that it was very wrong and selfish for 
 him to try to keep me from it. So he let me off from 
 my promise to marry him in July." 
 
 "Humph! I notice he did n't let you off until after 
 this happened," observed Gordon. 
 
 Again, if there was a covert insinuation in the 
 youth's words and manner, no one seemed to notice 
 it. 
 
 "There wasn't the need, before, that I should 
 earn money," Sister Sue reminded him, with some 
 dignity. 
 
 "But there's all that beautiful rainbow wedding," 
 bemoaned May. "Oh, Sue, how can you give it all 
 up?" 
 
 "Oh, but think of what I'm getting!" cried Sister 
 Sue, her face, still eager and alight. "To go on with 
 my work, and - Oh, the mail," she broke off as Katy 
 appeared at the door, several letters in her hand, the 
 greater share of which a moment later were placed at 
 the elder daughter's plate. 
 
 While Gordon was reading his single letter, and
 
 COUSIN ABBY 47 
 
 May hers, Sister Sue picked out a pale-blue envelope 
 from the pile and hastily opened it. 
 
 As she read, all the light and eagerness faded from 
 her face, leaving it suddenly pinched and drawn-look- 
 ing. With hands that shook a little, she folded the 
 letter, put it back in its envelope and raised her head. 
 The cold quietness of her voice as she began to speak 
 won the instant attention of both her auditors. 
 
 "You need not worry any more about Cousin Abby. 
 She 's just written me a letter. She sends her love and 
 sympathy in this time of our great trial, and says 
 she could n't think of burdening us with her presence 
 at a time like this. So she's not coming." 
 
 The next minute May and Gordon found them- 
 selves alone. Sister Sue had picked up her letters and 
 left the room. 
 
 "Why, what " began May, with puzzled eyes. 
 
 "Quitter, quitter!" stormed Gordon. It was as if 
 the surge of emotion of the last few minutes had 
 found a welcome outlet. "That's just the kind of a 
 woman I thought Cousin Abby was!" 
 
 "Why, Gordon, aren't you glad? I thought you 
 did n't want Cousin Abby to come!" cried May. 
 
 "What if I don't?" retorted Gordon, with the 
 lofty scorn of an unaccustomed cloak of righteous in- 
 dignation. "That doesn't hinder my saying she's 
 a quitter, does it? And her always teasing to come 
 when we had plenty of money, and backing out now 
 just when we want her!" 
 
 "But we don't want her," demurred May, with a 
 frown.
 
 48 SISTER SUE 
 
 "That does n't make any difference she does n't 
 know it. She's a quitter, just the same; and all be- 
 cause we're poor now, and she can't ride in the lim- 
 ousine, and order the maids around, and cut a dash 
 generally. You know what she was that time Sister 
 Sue was sick! She's a quitter, I tell you," decreed 
 Gordon, still wearing that unaccustomed cloak of 
 righteous scorn as he rose from the table.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 "LAST THINGS" 
 
 THEY were not easy those days that followed; they 
 were not easy for any of the Gilmore family, least 
 of all for Sister Sue, the answerer of every question, 
 the buffer for every complaint, the final arbiter of 
 every dispute. 
 
 They were the easiest, perhaps, for the suddenly- 
 grown-old man in the master's chamber upstairs. 
 John Gilmore was up and dressed, and about his room 
 now. The doctor said he was much better; that he 
 would probably continue to gain until he was physi- 
 cally able to do most of the things that any fairly 
 healthy man sixty-five years old could do. There was 
 nothing to be done, therefore, but to keep him in 
 the best health possible until the inevitable final 
 breakdown came, perhaps in one year, perhaps in 
 two years, perhaps not for five, or even ten years. He 
 had the mentality at present of a child. That might 
 improve, and it might not. He should be kept happy 
 and contented and it would take very little to do 
 that, usually. Though there might be times The 
 doctor did not finish his sentence; and Sister Sue, 
 to whom he had been speaking, did not press the 
 matter, after a glance at his face, and at her father's. 
 
 John Gilmore recognized his children, realized 
 where he was, and understood that he had been sick 
 and was getting better. He even knew that he was
 
 50 SISTER SUE 
 
 going to his old home in Gilmoreville before long; 
 and he was anticipating the trip very much, he said. 
 He liked Gilmoreville, and it would be good to see 
 the old home again. He asked his daughter Sue if his 
 mother was going to be there. And his daughter, 
 with only a little catch of the breath to betray the fact 
 that she knew his mother had been dead twenty-five 
 years, told him quietly no, she would not be there. 
 
 There was little that John Gilmore could do to 
 occupy his time. He could read, but reading seemed 
 to tire him. He liked better to cut out the advertis- 
 ing pictures from the papers; and his daughter Sue, 
 seeing this, brought in some children's bright-colored 
 picture books one day, which pleased him greatly. 
 He never spoke of business. He never mentioned the 
 firm of Gilmore and Glode. And those who talked 
 with him were only too glad that he should keep si- 
 lence on the subject. They were very thankful that 
 Memory, however sadly she had served him, had at 
 least done him this one good turn. 
 
 Not that there were many who talked with him or 
 who saw him. The doctor, of course, came, but only 
 twice a week now. Mr. Loring had come once; but, 
 though Mr. Gilmore called him by name, and asked 
 politely for his health, yet his presence seemed to fill 
 the invalid with a vague unrest, evidenced by uneasy, 
 searching glances into the visitor's face, and a nerv- 
 ous tapping of the fingers on the arms of the chair. 
 So Mr. Loring did not come again. 
 
 Martin Kent had called once; but he, too, had not 
 come again, though John Gilmore had greeted him
 
 LAST THINGS 51 
 
 cordially, and had seemed to enjoy showing him the 
 new pictures he had been cutting out. 
 
 Gordon and May never came into the room now. 
 Urged by Sister Sue they had come a few times at 
 first, for a very few moments. But almost at once 
 they had fled, shuddering, with their hands to their 
 ears and a horror-stricken "Oh, Sister Sue, Sister 
 Sue, how can you bear to see him like that?" 
 
 Even Mary did not come into the room now to 
 make the bed and "tidy up." After the third burst of 
 tears and the third shriek on her part in answer to her 
 master's query as to whether or not she liked to cut 
 out the pretty pictures, Sister Sue excused her from 
 further duties in the room, thenceforth taking upon 
 herself the task of keeping the chamber in order, ex- 
 cept for the weekly cleaning when Mary came in, and 
 John Gilmore walked through his bathroom to his 
 "den" beyond a room in which he had never cared 
 to stay and which he now seemed to dislike more than 
 ever. 
 
 The nurse at first engaged had been discharged. 
 He did not need a nurse, the doctor said, and her 
 presence seemed to fret and distress him. It had 
 simmered down then to the doctor and Sister Sue as 
 being his only visitors, day in and day out. As yet he 
 had not appeared to care to go downstairs, nor had 
 his daughter tried to have him go. His meals she 
 brought in herself on the tray left by Mary three 
 times a day just outside his door. 
 
 Truth to tell, as matters were, Sister Sue was quite 
 content to have her father stay where he was. Be-
 
 52 SISTER SUE 
 
 yond the fact of his deplorable condition, she did not 
 worry about him then, for she knew where he was. 
 Moreover, if he were downstairs, it would be impos- 
 sible to keep some of the confusion and horror from 
 penetrating even his befogged brain. As it was, up- 
 stairs he was content; and in a way his room made 
 a sort of refuge to fly to when conditions down- 
 stairs became particularly unbearable. Sad and 
 heart-breaking though it was to see him in that con- 
 dition, yet in his placid presence his sorely tried daugh- 
 ter could find at least a few minutes' respite from 
 problems that threatened to be too great for her to 
 solve. 
 
 Beset and besieged and importuned on all sides, 
 Sister Sue did surely need some refuge. She won- 
 dered sometimes if she were going to have sufficient 
 strength to go through it. If it had not been for her 
 piano, she thought she could not, indeed, have en- 
 dured it. But she could still find each day in her 
 beloved keyboard the means to vent her weariness, 
 worry, and utter dejection. And never yet thus far 
 had there failed to creep into the music, before she 
 rose from the piano, a triumphant strain that told 
 that the player had found somewhere a new hope and 
 a new courage to take up the next day's burdens. 
 
 Sometimes for a few minutes during the day, and 
 nearly always in the evening, Sister Sue found time 
 to snatch these few precious moments at the piano. 
 The members of her household and Martin Kent, 
 knowing her so well, were not surprised at this seem- 
 ing waste of time when so many important matters
 
 LAST THINGS 53 
 
 awaited her attention. But Daniel Loring, finding 
 her at the piano, and noticing particularly the trip- 
 ping melodies and sonorous chords, and not recog- 
 nizing them as the evidence of a hard- won victory, 
 wondered within him sometimes : "How in the dickens 
 can she do it?" 
 
 Daniel Loring came nearly every day now. He had 
 been appointed conservator of the estate by the Pro- 
 bate Court. There was much to be done; there were 
 many matters to be settled. 
 
 It had been ten weeks since the failure and the 
 house was already sold. Many of the expensive fur- 
 nishings had gone also at private sales. There was 
 to be an auction later for the few things remaining. 
 Even the master of the house upstairs was sorting out 
 his pictures on a solid mahogany table which was 
 already the property of his neighbor down the Ave- 
 nue, whose generous consideration for his old friend 
 was leaving it where it was until such time as its 
 former owner should take his scissors and picture 
 books to Gilmoreville, Vermont. 
 
 The beautiful limousine and the high-power tour- 
 ing car had been among the first of their possessions 
 to go, though May freely expressed her opinion of 
 the short-sightedness of not leaving these till the last 
 when she and Sister Sue particularly needed them for 
 all their good-bye calls and parties. (To have been 
 strictly accurate, May should have spoken for herself 
 alone; Sister Sue was not making good-bye calls or 
 attending good-bye parties. But May was not always 
 strictly accurate in her assertions.) The chauffeur,
 
 54 SISTER SUE 
 
 of course, had gone, and Mary was to go when the 
 month was out. Katy was still there and would go 
 with them to Gilmoreville. 
 
 Martin Kent called occasionally. Toward his 
 fiancee he was all sympathy, all love, all tenderness. 
 He smoothed her hair and caressed her hands, and 
 said what a wretched shame it was that his dear lit- 
 tle sweetheart should have to go through this awful 
 thing! He sent her flowers and candy; but when she 
 begged him to advise her as to what price to set on 
 the library furniture, and as to the advisability of 
 certain sales recommended by Mr. Loring, he threw 
 his hands in the air and shook his head vehemently, 
 declaring that he had a miserable head for business 
 and that he had n't the faintest idea what to tell her 
 to do. So he was not much assistance to her in that 
 way. 
 
 She had told him at the very first, after Cousin 
 Abby's letter came, that of course all idea of going 
 on with her music must be abandoned now, as it was 
 out of the question for her to leave her father at 
 present. He had sympathized very tenderly with her 
 at the time, and had bemoaned the cruel fate that 
 tied her bright spirit to sordid affairs of everyday 
 living. He had said, too, how thankful he was that 
 at least he had been man enough at the last to urge 
 her to develop her divine gift, and that whatever hap- 
 pened, he would have the blissful consciousness of 
 knowing that it was not through his selfishness that 
 she was being kept from realizing her ambitions. He 
 spoke beautifully of her noble self-sacrifice, and as-
 
 LAST THINGS 55 
 
 sured her that Heaven's richest reward would be 
 hers. 
 
 Not until after he had gone that evening, however, 
 did it occur to his fiancee that he had not said any- 
 thing about her renewing her pledge to marry him in 
 July, now that the possibility of a career of her own 
 must be abandoned. 
 
 Alone, in the dark, she flushed hotly, as she thought 
 of it. 
 
 "Of course, I could marry him, I suppose," she 
 admitted to herself. "He was coming home to live 
 with us, anyway. But well, probably he did n't 
 want to trouble me now with talking about it. He 
 thought I had enough to think of, as it is," she as- 
 sured herself with a resoluteness that hinted at the 
 necessity of placating a little hurt something that 
 still questioned within her. 
 
 As the days passed, Martin Kent still apparently 
 thought best not to "bother" his fiancee with plead- 
 ings for an early marriage. At all events, he said 
 nothing about her former promise to marry him in 
 July, though he was yet very devoted and lover-like 
 in his behavior. If the girl herself noticed this, she 
 gave no sign. Her attention, apparently, was en- 
 tirely taken up with other matters. 
 
 And Heaven knew there were plenty of such! 
 
 Sister Sue had hoped, at the first, to keep her 
 piano. But it was a fine instrument and in excellent 
 condition ; and she knew that it must go, even before 
 Mr. Loring appeared one day with a purchaser who 
 offered a price quite too large to refuse. Like the fur-
 
 56 SISTER SUE 
 
 niture in the master's bedroom, however, the piano 
 was to stay until the family themselves were ready to 
 go. So Sister Sue was still enabled to seek its comfort 
 and inspiration. But even after the big fat man with 
 the diamond stick-pin in his tie had drawn the check 
 that made the instrument his, sensitive ears might 
 have detected in the notes that fell from Sister Sue's 
 fingers a tragic undertone of longing and renuncia- 
 tion in even the most triumphant of the chords and 
 melodies. 
 
 April passed and May came. They were to go early 
 in June immediately upon the closing of the exclu- 
 sive private schools which May and Gordon at- 
 tended. Downstairs the house was already nearly 
 empty. Mary had gone, and only Katy, red-eyed 
 and gloomy, full of prophecies of evil, remained in the 
 kitchen. Gordon, spending every spare minute out of 
 school off with "the boys," was admittedly trying to 
 get in all the pleasure he could before he "buried him- 
 self for life." May, almost habitually now in tears 
 except when away from home, was saying her fare- 
 wells in one grand whirl of gayety, willingly chap- 
 eroned by Mrs. Henderson. John Gilmore, greatly 
 improved in health, but not in mind, was getting 
 restless in his somewhat restricted quarters, and was 
 importuning his daughter Sue as to when he could 
 go downstairs. He told her he had been sick quite 
 as long as he wanted to be; and he declared that he 
 should never get his strength back until he got out of 
 doors. 
 
 Sister Sue, nearly distracted with them all, was
 
 LAST THINGS 57 
 
 doing "last things" too. But her last things did not 
 consist of uproarious frolics off with the boys, nor of 
 tearful, violet-scented kisses at pink teas. They con- 
 sisted of hurried directions as to packing certain 
 trunks and boxes for shipment to Gilmoreville, and 
 of stoically calm last looks at household treasures 
 being borne down the steps on the shoulders of stal- 
 wart men to the great vans which would take them to 
 the homes of those who would, in days to come, never 
 cease to boast of the bargains they got "when Gil- 
 more and Glode failed, don't you know." 
 
 True, Sister Sue did make one farewell call. Two 
 days before they started for Gilmoreville, she went to 
 see Signer Bartoni. She thanked him for all he had 
 done for her, and for the kind encouragement he had 
 given her, which meant to her, oh, so much more 
 than she could ever express in words. Then, with 
 very red cheeks and very bright eyes, she told him 
 that she had been obliged, of course, to give up 
 all idea of training herself for a concert pianist for 
 the present; but that she still had hopes that some 
 day 
 
 She did not finish her sentence; and Signer Bar- 
 toni, reading aright the little choke that broke the 
 sentence off short, made haste to assure her that yes, 
 yes, he was very sure she would go back to her music 
 with renewed vigor and strength; that it would be a 
 "pi-tee" and a "cr-rime" not to. 
 
 Sister Sue went home then. Her cheeks were still 
 red and her eyes were still bright until she had 
 boarded the crowded trolley car at the corner of the
 
 58 SISTER SUE 
 
 street. There, clinging to the strap, and swaying 
 with the motion of the car, she relaxed suddenly, as 
 if somewhere had snapped a taut cord. The red fled 
 from her cheeks and the sparkle from her eyes. She 
 was white-faced and shaking when she reached home, 
 and her hands and feet were cold and numb. 
 
 In her own room, ten minutes later, she was putting 
 away in her trunk a photograph and several clippings 
 cut from magazines and newspapers. The photograph 
 was the likeness of America's greatest woman pian- 
 ist a being whom Sister Sue had always worshiped 
 (as at a shrine), ever since hearing her play two years 
 before. The clippings were every scrap and bit of in- 
 formation that she had been able to gather concern- 
 ing the object of her adoration. The picture had oc- 
 cupied an honored position upon her dressing-table 
 and the clippings had been within easy reach of her 
 hand for frequent perusal. She put them all now in 
 the very bottom of her trunk. 
 
 Martin Kent called that evening. On a trunk and 
 a packing-box they sat before the fire in the library. 
 As usual they were alone. 
 
 "More farewells, I suppose your sister and Gor- 
 don," smiled the man, asking with a gesture if he 
 might smoke. 
 
 "Yes. Mrs. Henderson called for May in the car. 
 It's a theater and supper to-night, I believe." Sister 
 Sue looked a little sober. "Mrs. Henderson has been 
 very kind, and it's wonderful that May has had this 
 chance. Of course I have been good for nothing as 
 a chaperon for weeks past. The only trouble is, I'm
 
 LAST THINGS 59 
 
 afraid it 's going to be all the harder when the end 
 comes." 
 
 "You mean Gilmoreville?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The man blew a smoke-ring, then clasped his knee 
 with both arms. 
 
 "You've never told me. What's it like Gil- 
 moreville?" he asked then. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I have. Don't you remember? I told 
 you it would be a lovely place to get copy; that is - 
 She stopped abruptly, a bright color flaming to the 
 roots of her hair as she threw a swift sideways glance 
 into the man's face. 
 
 But Martin Kent did not seem to be noticing. 
 
 "It's just a little country town, then," he com- 
 mented indifferently, his eyes on another smoke- 
 ring. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That will be hard for people who like the gay 
 white way and pink teas Gordon and your sister 
 May, for instance. And how about you, dear? " 
 He turned now, and looked into her face. 
 
 "Oh, I shall survive, I fancy." Her eyes were 
 carefully averted. "I shall be busy" her voice 
 was not quite steady "and there's nothing like 
 work to take up one's mind, you know." 
 
 "By George, it's a beastly shame!" stormed the 
 man vehemently. "To bury you like that in a 
 measly little country town! How big is the place, 
 >Miyway?" 
 
 "Oh, three or four thousand, I suppose."
 
 60 SISTER SUE 
 
 "You've been there before, you said, I believe." 
 
 "Oh, yes, many times, especially when we were 
 children. We rather liked it then, for a little while in 
 the summer. We have n't been so often of late years, 
 nor stayed so long. But Father always liked it. I 'm 
 glad of that. He '11 be more contented there, I hope. 
 He's getting terribly restless here. Oh, Martin, you 
 don't know how I dread it to-morrow, taking him 
 down through the halls. You see, he 's just been in his 
 little suite upstairs, and he does n't know a thing of 
 what's been done outside." 
 
 "What does the doctor say?" 
 
 "Why, he says we've got to take him, and, any- 
 way, he thinks he'll be all right. But he and Mr. 
 Loring are going to be in the library within call, so 
 if I should need them, but they think it's better to 
 keep out of sight unless I do. The doctor says Father 
 may question a little, and look worried and con- 
 fused; but oh, Martin, Martin, seems as if I I 
 just could n't have it ! Father Father like that ! " 
 Her voice choked into a sob and she put both hands 
 to her eyes. 
 
 "Darling, don't!" With a jerk the man tossed his 
 cigar into the fire and crowded himself on to the pack- 
 ing-case at her side. Then, with all his skill and magic 
 of words, he soothed and comforted her until he had 
 her laughing through her tears. Then, as if to divert 
 her mind from her father, he went back to his ques- 
 tions concerning Gilmoreville. 
 
 "How about the house? Is that comfortable?" 
 "Yes, oh, yes, in away. Of course it's just a great
 
 LAST THINGS 61 
 
 big old-fashioned country house with stoves and fire- 
 places, though." 
 
 "It's all furnished?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, after a fashion. We're not taking any 
 furniture from here. We did n't really need to. Be- 
 sides, Mr. Loring said we 'd better not. Everything 
 here had to be sold to help out, you know." 
 
 "Even the piano! That was the toughest thing of 
 all, dear. But there's one up there, of course. You 
 would n't have left yourself without anything!" 
 
 She gave a faint smile. 
 
 "Oh, yes, there's one there," she admitted, "after a 
 fashion, like the rest of the things. It's an old square 
 one with octagon legs. It sounds a good deal like a 
 tinkling cymbal, if you know what that is. I don't. 
 But it sounds as if it sounded like that! Still, it'll be 
 better than nothing, I suppose." 
 
 "Is the house open? Will there be any one there 
 to to meet you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, the Prestons. They're the people who 
 have lived there all these years and kept it in good 
 order. They have three rooms for their own, and 
 we '11 let them stay, I imagine. They had their rent 
 for looking after the place a little. Of course, when 
 we were there, or when they did extra things for us, 
 Father paid them for it. But we can't pay them any- 
 thing now, of course. It'll be just what little odd 
 jobs they do for their rent." 
 
 "But you'll keep them there?" 
 
 "Mercy, yes! Why, they've always been there, 
 Martin. I should as soon think of trying to move one
 
 62 SISTER SUE 
 
 of the big trees in the lawn," smiled the girl. "Be- 
 sides, I don't want to. Mrs. Preston is a dear. We 
 children always adored her. She 's quite a character, 
 too. You may get " For some unapparent reason 
 the girl stopped short, a sudden color flooding her 
 face. Then at once she hurried on with a haste that 
 was almost precipitate. "You may get get quite 
 an idea of what she is when I tell you that Granny 
 Preston is quite a personage in Gilmoreville. She 
 knows everything that " 
 
 With an impatient gesture Martin Kent turned 
 upon her almost savagely. 
 
 "A personage, indeed!" he interrupted. "And 
 you have to endure that! A Granny Preston, who 
 knows everything! Sue, is there any one in that 
 infernal town er fit to be your associate?" 
 
 The girl laughed merrily; but almost instantly her 
 face sobered and she looked very grave, with a tinge 
 of anger and resentment in her eyes. But there was 
 still another change the next moment when she spoke. 
 Her eyes were twinkling now. 
 
 "Oh, yes; yes, indeed, Martin. We live right next 
 to the Kendalls; and the Kendalls have two motor 
 cars and use finger bowls every day real common, 
 you know. And there are the Grays he 's worth at 
 least ten thousand dollars; and the Whipples keep a 
 maid, and have a real show place with a porte-cochere 
 that everybody who comes to Gilmoreville is always 
 taken to see. And the Sargents they have a man 
 come two days a week to mow the lawn, and " 
 
 "Sue!"
 
 LAST THINGS 63 
 
 The girl laughed roguishly. Then again her face 
 grew sober, but there was no anger or resentment in 
 her eyes now. 
 
 "Yes, I know I was making fun that time; but I 
 was only giving you a few of the choicest morsels in 
 some of Mrs. Preston's quarterly letters to Father. 
 Seriously, dear, there are some very charming people 
 in Gilmoreville, and some otherwise, of course. Like 
 any town of its size, it has its would-be smart set, 
 which I imagine will have very little to do with us 
 now. But there are clubs and churches, and a few 
 families of real culture and education, besides many 
 of genuine worth with kind hearts and level heads, 
 even if their grammar and their manners are not 
 above reproach." 
 
 "How about those people next door? what did 
 you call them?" 
 
 "With the finger bowls?" smiled Sister Sue. "The 
 Kendalls. He's the richest man in town, I suppose. 
 He makes shoes. She's a good woman, a bit spoiled, 
 perhaps, by her money they have n't always had 
 it. They have a son who is getting really famous, I 
 hear, as a violinist." 
 
 "Not Donald Kendall?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you know him?" 
 
 "I did once. We used to play together as children 
 a little. But he was older than we were, and, if I 
 remember rightly, rather domineering and disagree- 
 able. We never got on very well together. I have n't 
 seen him for years eight or nine, I guess. He has
 
 64 SISTER SUE 
 
 not been there when we have lately and we have 
 not been there a great deal." 
 
 "Hm-m," commented the man. "I heard him 
 once. Great player ! " 
 
 "So I understand, and oh, he's not the only 
 celebrity that hails from Gilmoreville, let me tell 
 you! There's Kate Farnum, the novelist, and Viola 
 Sanderson, the singer, and Cy Bellows, and " 
 
 "Not the real Cy, the ball-player?" 
 
 "Surely! I see you are impressed now!" Her eyes 
 were merry again. "But you must n't be too im- 
 pressed. Please remember that these celebrated per- 
 sonages are not there now. They won't be dropping in 
 to breakfast every day. They just were there, once 
 born there. There 's just Granny Preston there 
 now. She did n't go away, you know," finished Sister 
 Sue, with an emphasis that was as merry as it was 
 unmistakable. 
 
 With a shrug of his shoulders Martin Kent got 
 abruptly to his feet. 
 
 "I'm glad your courage is so good," he observed 
 dryly, a curious irritation in voice and manner. 
 
 Five minutes later he was gone; and though his 
 kiss at parting had been tender, and his words very 
 loving, there was still underneath it all that same 
 curious irritation.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 GILMOREVILLE 
 
 IT was little more than a half-day's journey to Gil- 
 moreville from Boston, and Sister Sue knew that she 
 had been hoping that Martin Kent would make it 
 with them. She was dreading the trip especially for 
 her father, and she was fearing what he might do on 
 the journey. She felt that if she had a strong man 
 like Martin with her, she would be much easier in her 
 mind. But she did not like to ask him to go, especially 
 in the face of his very obvious avoidance of the pres- 
 ence of the sick man, even in the Gilmores' own home. 
 
 When the day came finally for the start, Sister Sue 
 was still hoping against hope that he would go with 
 them. Nor did she quite give up till his telephone 
 message came that morning to the effect that he 
 would meet them at the station and see them off. 
 She knew then that upon her own shoulders must 
 rest the entire responsibility of the trip. 
 
 Even from the very beginning she found that she 
 stood alone; for as soon as the doctor and Mr. Loring 
 had disappeared into the library, May and Gordon 
 hurried out to the waiting cab, May calling back: 
 
 "Now wait till we're inside before you get Father. 
 We don't want to be there when he comes down!" 
 
 At her words, Katy, standing in the hall with the 
 remaining bags, picked up a suitcase in each hand and 
 hurried after the two young people.
 
 66 SISTER SUE 
 
 Behind them Sister Sue, alone on the stairway, bit 
 her lip and forced back a choking something in her 
 throat. Then, with chin up, she turned and began 
 to ascend the stairs. But her feet lagged, and it was 
 plainly only sheer will power that carried them up at 
 all. 
 
 On all sides were bare walls, bare windows, bare 
 floors; and Sister Sue saw them, and shivered. 
 
 Just what would be the effect on her father when he 
 should step across the threshold of his chamber into 
 this? Would he pass through unnoticing, or would 
 the shock of the echoing bareness snap the taut 
 something that held his brain in leash and restore 
 memory and understanding? And if it did, would the 
 revelation mean hours, days, months, even years 
 of full consciousness of the catastrophe, or would it 
 mean one blinding flash of anguish to be succeeded 
 immediately by blank oblivion? 
 
 To Sister Sue, holding her breath outside her 
 father's door, the one seemed hardly less terrible than 
 the other. 
 
 At that moment from the room beyond came the 
 sound of a clock's striking nine; and with a little 
 choking sob the girl pulled a key from the pocket 
 of her dress and hurriedly fitted it into the lock; for 
 some days now John Gilmore had been very literally 
 a prisoner, his daughter not daring to trust his rapidly 
 increaging activity to the unrestricted freedom of an 
 unlocked door. 
 
 "Well, Father, are you all ready? " she called gayly. 
 "The car is here. You know I said I'd be up at nine
 
 GILMOREVILLE 67 
 
 o'clock." Then she stopped and caught her breath 
 with a little half-suppressed cry, so fine and splendid 
 and handsome did the man look, standing by the 
 table facing her. 
 
 John Gilmore, carefully groomed and fully dressed, 
 even to hat, top coat, and cane, looked so near like 
 the John Gilmore of Gilmore and Glode, that she 
 almost expected him to say peremptorily: 
 
 "Tell Jackson I'll want the car right away, please, 
 and telephone Loring that I Ve started, and shall ex- 
 pect him to meet me at the First National in half an 
 hour." 
 
 But the tall, distinguished-looking man standing by 
 the table did not say that. He opened his lips and 
 with his first words the illusion of the prosperous, 
 prominent banker, was quite gone. 
 
 "Sue, I can't find my pictures, not a single one of 
 them. I can't go without my pictures!" he fretted. 
 "Where are they, Sue?" 
 
 The girl drew a long breath. 
 
 "They're quite safe, dear. I packed them myself 
 last night. Don't you remember? I told you. Come, 
 we 're all ready. The trunks went last night and the 
 bags are all in the car. And we have a beautiful day 
 to start," she chatted on. They were going through 
 the doorway into that bare hall now, and Sister Sue, 
 in spite of her blithe voice, was trembling with the 
 fear of the next two minutes, her eyes shrinking from 
 what they dreaded to see, yet refusing to leave the 
 man's face. "May and Gordon are already in the 
 car, waiting. Come, Father, we don't want to lose
 
 68 SISTER SUE 
 
 that train. You know trains don't wait for people, 
 and " 
 
 "Why, Sue!" At the head of the stairs the man 
 had come to a full stop in spite of the urge of the 
 girl's arm. 
 
 From sheer inability to make her dry lips articulate 
 the rest of her sentence, Sister Sue stopped and waited 
 for him to speak. 
 
 "Why, Sue, what is the matter here? Things look 
 queer." He had the groping air of one trying to 
 peer through the dark to find the outlines of some 
 familiar object. 
 
 "Yes, I know, dear; but, come, Father hurry. 
 We don't want to lose that train, you know!" She 
 pulled gently at his arm. 
 
 In obedience he began to descend the stairs slowly, 
 his groping eyes still peering into the hall below. 
 
 "But, they're all gone, Sue everything!" 
 
 " Yes, dear, and we 're going, too, you know. We 're 
 going to Gilmoreville." 
 
 "Oh, yes Gilmoreville." They were in the 
 lower hall now. The door to the library, behind which 
 she knew were the two listening men, was closed. 
 So, too, was the door to the drawing-room on the 
 other side. Sister Sue had seen to that. The front 
 door lay before them, wide open, inviting them. "Oh, 
 yes, Gilmoreville," repeated the man, his eyes still 
 troubled, questioning, turning from side to side. 
 
 "You wanted to go there, you know," Sister Sue 
 reminded him cheerily. They were safely by the two 
 closed doors that she had most feared now.
 
 GILMOREVILLE 69 
 
 "Yes, oh, yes, I like Gilmoreville. But you took 
 the pictures?" His eyes sought her face fearfully. 
 
 "Yes, every one of them. And I bought two lovely 
 new books of them yesterday downtown, too. You '11 
 like those, I'm sure." 
 
 They were at the outer door. In a moment they 
 were descending the steps. On the sidewalk John Gil- 
 more paused again, his eyes on the cab and its driver. 
 
 "That's not Jackson. Is that our car?" 
 
 "No, but it's all right. Step right in, Father. 
 We've got to hurry, you know, for that train!" 
 
 And John Gilmore stepped in. And as his foot 
 touched the running-board the girl behind him turned 
 with a smile and a wave of the hand toward the two 
 men watching from the library window. 
 
 The men waved back vigorously and nodded their 
 heads in obvious congratulation. They caught her 
 answering nod and the flash of her smile; but they 
 could not hear her relieved sigh as she stepped in 
 after her father and the door closed behind her. 
 
 In the cab May whispered an excited question: 
 
 "How was he? Was he all right?" 
 
 "Yes, yes hush! Talk about the weather, the 
 scenery anything; but don't let him talk," begged 
 Sister Sue. 
 
 "I saw the doctor and Mr. Loring watching from 
 the window," whispered Gordon. "I s'pose they'll 
 'tend to things." 
 
 "Yes, everything. Now let's forget it all back 
 there," cried Sister Sue, her anxious eyes still search- 
 ing her father's face.
 
 70 SISTER SUE 
 
 It was not a long trip to the station and it proved 
 to be an uneventful one. With calm dignity John 
 Gilmore sat back in his seat, commenting pleasantly 
 on the various sights from the window, much to the 
 very plain relief of his three children. 
 
 In the station they found Martin Kent awaiting 
 them. He was very kind. He asked if they had their 
 tickets and he arranged about their baggage. He 
 bought flowers, candy, and books; and he told Sister 
 Sue that her father was looking finely; and he said 
 what a handsome man he was, to be sure, and what a 
 pity it was that he should have gone to pieces like 
 that! But he very carefully avoided speaking to the 
 man himself. He told May, in a low voice, that it 
 would kill him if he had to be with him the way Sister 
 Sue was. And May said, yes, it would her, too; and 
 she did n't see how Sister Sue stood it. He went with 
 them into the car and piled up the candy and the 
 books and the flowers all around them, and told them 
 he hoped they 'd have a very pleasant journey. 
 
 It was left for May to say, as he turned away: 
 
 "Come up soon, Martin, please! We shall just die 
 up there alone with nobody! You will come?" 
 
 "Of course I'll come," he nodded back at her. 
 "Now take good care of your sister Sue, for me," he 
 finished, with a flashing smile which included both 
 the girls. 
 
 "May, how could you ask him to do that?" re- 
 monstrated Sister Sue, her face scarlet. 
 
 "Why, what an idea! Of course I'd ask him to 
 come up! Why not?"
 
 GILMOREVILLE 71 
 
 "But, May, he has n't said a word about coming 
 not a word!" 
 
 "What if he has n't?" retorted May aggrievedly. 
 "Of course he doesn't want to come! Who would 
 want to come to a stupid place like that? But I don't 
 care if he does n't. He 's got to! Is n't he engaged to 
 you?" 
 
 "May!" 
 
 "Well, I don't care. It's no more than fair that he 
 should come up and help us bear it part of the time." 
 
 "Oh, May!" objected Sister Sue again, her face 
 still scarlet. "As if I want any man to do anything 
 for me he does n't want to do!" 
 
 But May only shrugged her pretty shoulders and 
 settled herself more comfortably hi her seat. 
 
 It was Gordon's turn then. 
 
 "But I thought you two were going to be married 
 in July." 
 
 "Oh, no, not now not at present," declared 
 Sister Sue hurriedly, but with a very bright smile. 
 Then, a little abruptly, she turned her attention to her 
 father, to make sure that he was comfortable and 
 contented. 
 
 On the whole, the journey to Gilmoreville was ac- 
 complished with less trouble than Sister Sue had 
 feared that it would be. The shifting panorama out 
 the window sufficiently occupied John Gilmore's at- 
 tention for more than half the way. After that he 
 dozed fitfully in his chair, and at no time did he give 
 any sort of trouble. 
 
 Gordon read, and spent more of his time in the
 
 72 SISTER SUE 
 
 smoking-car than was quite pleasing to his sister Sue. 
 May also read for a while; but as time passed she 
 grew restless; and, after an apprehensive glance at 
 her father, she began to talk to her sister. 
 
 "Will anybody meet us?" 
 
 "Mr. Preston, I think. I told him to be there. I 
 may want some help about Father, you know." 
 
 May drew a prodigious sigh. 
 
 "I suppose we'll have to ride in that awful bus." 
 
 "I suppose we shall." 
 
 "Horrid, bumpy thing! Sue, it just seems as if I 
 could n't do it!" 
 
 "I know it; but we've got to do it, May. We've 
 got to do a lot of things, I 'm afraid, that it will 
 seem as if we could n't do." 
 
 "Have n't we got any money?" 
 
 "Very little. Mr. Loring's coming to see us after 
 everything's all settled up and tell us how much we 
 have got." 
 
 "We've got that mining stock we three chil- 
 dren. Is n't that worth anything?'' 
 
 Sister Sue made a wry face. 
 
 "About two cents on a dollar, Mr. Loring says." 
 
 "Why, how perfectly horrid! What did Father 
 buy it for, anyway? " 
 
 "I don't know, I'm sure." Sister Sue spoke a little 
 wearily, her eyes out the window. "He thought it 
 was worth something, I suppose, or would be, some- 
 time. Mr. Loring says it may be even now. It 's 
 possible, but not probable. So I would n't count on 
 that if I were you."
 
 GILMOREVILLE 73 
 
 "But what are we going to do?" demanded May. 
 
 There was no answer. Sister Sue, apparently ab- 
 sorbed in her own thoughts, was still looking out the 
 window. 
 
 For another minute the younger girl fidgeted in 
 her seat; then she began to talk again. 
 
 "What '11 you wager half of Gilmoreville isn't at 
 the station to meet us? If Granny Preston knows 
 when we're coming, the whole town does. That's 
 certain. And they'll come and stare, and stare, just 
 as they do when the circus conies to town." 
 
 "May!" Sister Sue's attention was manifestly 
 captured now. 
 
 "Well, they will. You know they will. We were 
 rich ; now we 're poor. Something awful 's the matter 
 with Father. He looks like a man; he acts like a child. 
 They want to see him. They want to see us. They 
 want to find out how we take it." 
 
 "Oh, May!" remonstrated Sister Sue feebly. 
 
 "Well, they do. Funny how folks like that will 
 stand around and gloat over anybody, isn't it?" 
 
 "Why, May, they don't gloat," disputed Sister 
 Sue. "They will be be sorry for for Father, I 
 know." 
 
 May laughed a bit tauntingly. 
 
 "You could n't say it, could you?" she challenged. 
 "You know they won't be sorry for us oh, they 
 may be sorry for Father, in that horrid, pitying way 
 that makes you want to shake them ! But they won't 
 be sorry for us. They '11 say they are, of course; but all 
 the while they'll be thinking inside of themselves:
 
 74 SISTER SUE 
 
 *Ah, ha! Ah, ha! Now I guess you'll see how good it 
 is to be poor, yourself! ' ' 
 
 "Oh, May, don't!" remonstrated Sister Sue again 
 feebly. But May was not to be so easily silenced. 
 With only an imperturbable shrug, she kept right on 
 speaking: 
 
 " Can't you see Mrs. Whipple rush up to us and say, 
 'Oh, dear Miss Gilmore, how shocked and grieved we 
 all are for you!' and then put up that wonderful 
 lorgnette of hers and make sure whether it is our last 
 year's suits turned and dyed? Can't you? I can! 
 And I can see Delia Gray roll her eyes to the sky, and 
 moan, 'Oh, you poor dear things! How are you ever 
 going to live through it!' and then call that red- 
 haired, homely daughter of hers away quick, for fear 
 she'll look at Gordon, who 'has n't a cent now, my 
 dear, not a cent!" 
 
 "Oh, May, May, what a child you are!" cried 
 Sister Sue; but she was laughing now. 
 
 May was not laughing. The fretful frown on her 
 face carried nothing but vexation and disgust. 
 
 "Oh, of course lots of them won't say anything; 
 they'll just stand off and stare, and not even take the 
 trouble to look the other way, either, when we catch 
 them at it. And the children will point their fingers 
 at Father and whisper those things that begin with 
 'Do you know, they say ' And I just hate to " 
 There came a sharp whistle and the slowing-down of 
 the train as they approached a station. "Why, here 
 we are, now!" she cried, as the train drew up to the 
 Gilmoreville station platform. "And there's Mrs.
 
 GILMOREVILLE 75 
 
 Whipple with her lorgnette and a whole mob with 
 her. What did I tell you? And there's Mrs. Kendall, 
 too," she added. "Sister Sue, that is Mrs. Kendall, 
 is n't it?" 
 
 There was no answer. Sister Sue was too busy 
 getting her charge into his hat and coat to reply to 
 any questions just then. 
 
 In a way it was as May had said that it would be. 
 There certainly was (for Gilmoreville) a large crowd 
 at the station; and many persons did stand back and 
 stare with unabashed eyes that refused to turn aside. 
 Mrs. Whipple, too, did rush up to them; and she said: 
 "Oh, my poor dear Miss Gilmore, this has been such a 
 shock to us!" But she did not, as far as May could 
 see, give their suits a lorgnette scrutiny. 
 
 As for Mrs. Gray, she was not there at all. Neither 
 did they ride home in the hated bus. Mrs. Kendall 
 had her big seven-passenger touring car there, and 
 she said there was room for them all. And there was. 
 
 John Gilmore behaved like the courteous gentle- 
 man that he was; and except for his obvious great 
 weariness and his two questions as to how his mother 
 was and why she did not come to the station to meet 
 them, he gave no sign that he was not very much as 
 they had been accustomed to seeing him. 
 
 Mr. Preston was there, a little frightened and nerv- 
 ous, but very anxious to help in every way possible. 
 He was left in charge of the baggage, looking infinitely 
 relieved that he was not obliged to have anything to 
 do with Mr. John Gilmore. John Gilmore was, in- 
 deed, except for his daughter Sue's ministrations,
 
 76 SISTER SUE 
 
 left almost entirely to himself. Few appeared to care 
 to speak to him; atfd even Mrs. Kendall, aside from 
 greeting him in the first place, and answering his 
 questions concerning his mother with a stammering 
 "I I don't know, I'm sure," appeared not to know 
 that he was present. 
 
 Mrs. Kendall told Sister Sue that she was glad, 
 she was sure, that she could bring them home; and 
 she hoped there would be many little kindnesses that 
 she could show them in the days to come, now that 
 they had lost their money and were so poor. Sister 
 Sue smiled and said, " Thank you," very pleasantly, 
 pretending not to notice that May's elbow was dig- 
 ging into her side with unmistakable meaning. 
 
 At the great square house with its white-pillared 
 veranda, known as the Gilmore place, Mrs. Preston 
 greeted them with a cheery welcome and an open fire 
 in the living-room. 
 
 ' 'T was so kind of cold to-day I lit up," she ex- 
 plained as she ushered them into the house. "Any- 
 how, I knew 't would look good." 
 
 Mrs. Preston was a spry little old lady, seventy- 
 five years young, with twinkling blue eyes, and a 
 back whose uncompromising straightness hinted at a 
 lifelong scorn of rockers and easy-chairs. There was 
 certainly no avoidance of Mr. John Gilmore on her 
 part, nor the least hesitation in her manner as she 
 went straight to him and shook his hand heartily. 
 
 John Gilmore peered into her face a little uncer- 
 tainly. 
 
 "How do you do, how do you do?" he muttered.
 
 GILMOREVILLE 77 
 
 "Oh, yes, Mrs. Preston, how do you do?" he went on 
 more confidently. "I'm tired, very tired. I'll go up 
 to my room, I think, as soon as I've seen Mother. 
 Where is she, Mrs. Preston?" 
 
 Sister Sue, just behind her father, caught her 
 breath and held it suspended, her beseeching eyes on 
 Mrs. Preston's face. May and Gordon gasped audibly. 
 But Mrs. Preston Mrs. Preston never so much as 
 changed color, and only the slightest flickering of the 
 lids above the kindly blue eyes showed that the ques- 
 tion was anything out of the ordinary. 
 
 "Your mother? Well, I can't jest say where she is, 
 Mr. Gilmore. But I would n't wait for her. I 'd come 
 right up now ter your room. I've got it all slicked 
 up for you, nice an' pretty." And still cheerily Mrs. 
 Preston led the way from the room.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 DAYS OF ADJUSTMENT 
 
 THEY were not easy those first days of adjustment 
 to new conditions. Accustomed all their lives to the 
 luxurious appointments of a house fitted out by an 
 apparently inexhaustible purse, it was not easy to 
 conform to the inconvenient limitations of a small- 
 town house built before the days of electric lights and 
 tiled bathrooms. Accustomed also to rich furnishings, 
 harmonious colors, and fine pictures, it was not easy 
 immediately to feel at home in rooms where hair- 
 wreaths and framed coffin-plates were considered the 
 acme of decorative art. 
 
 And as usual the burden of it all fell upon Sister 
 Sue. It was Sister Sue who shamed May into a 
 measurably serene acceptance of the loss of her daily 
 hot water, and who laughed Gordon into learning 
 the way to stop a kerosene lamp from smoking. It 
 was Sister Sue, also, who bore the brunt of Katy's 
 grumpy fault-finding about a kitchen that had no gas, 
 no electricity, no hot water, no anything, Katy said, 
 that a decent, respectable kitchen and pantry ought 
 to have. And it was, of course, Sister Sue who at- 
 tended to establishing John Gilmore in a daily routine 
 that would not unduly tire him, but that would still 
 keep him comparatively contented. 
 
 Then, too, there were the callers; and Sister Sue 
 must see those. Her father certainly could not and
 
 DAYS OF ADJUSTMENT 79 
 
 her sister May would not. There were the few who 
 came out of sincere sympathy and would-be helpful- 
 ness; there were the many who came out of ill-con- 
 cealed curiosity, but with loud lamentations that 
 were even harder to bear patiently than were the semi- 
 impertinent questions. And Sister Sue saw them all, 
 and smiled, and looked pleasant, and said "Thank 
 you," and that they were very kind, to be sure. And 
 not even May knew that after they were gone Sister 
 Sue shut herself up in her room in a helpless storm of 
 rage and tears. 
 
 True, they knew that she often sought the piano 
 after such calls, and they were pretty sure that never 
 had the timid old instrument been made to voice such 
 sentiments as it poured forth now under Sister Sue's 
 overwrought fingers. But they were used to that, 
 even if the piano was not. Besides, it was noticeable 
 that less and less frequently was Sister Sue flying even 
 to that refuge. But if May and Gordon saw this, they 
 did not mention it, even to each other perhaps be- 
 cause they were quite too busy with their own neces- 
 sary adjustments to concern themselves overmuch 
 with those of anybody else. 
 
 Then came the day when Katy packed her bag and 
 said that she could n't stand it another day, not an- 
 other minute ; and that while she was very sorry to be 
 leaving without a proper notice and all, it was too 
 much to expect any decent, self-respecting girl to put 
 up with what she'd had to put up with ever since 
 she'd left the blessed city and come to this outland- 
 ish, God-forsaken country town. And she went.
 
 80 SISTER SUE 
 
 And as she went, she slammed the door. It was 
 not the first time that Katy had slammed doors and 
 banged tin pans. Gordon had been known to say 
 more than once that doors and tin pans were Katy's 
 "piano" and he always said it with a mischievous 
 wink toward his sister Sue. And so to-day when the 
 bang of the slammed door reverberated through the 
 house, Gordon shrugged his shoulders and observed: 
 
 "I think I hear Katy's piano." 
 
 "But what are we going to do?" gasped May. 
 
 It was Sister Sue's shoulders that shrugged this time. 
 
 "Well, I know some things I shan't have to do." 
 Sister Sue was laughing a little grimly. "I shan't 
 have to explain and apologize every time I go into the 
 kitchen because we have n't a certain kind of fork 
 or spoon or kettle or frying-pan that 'everybody 
 has who pretends to have anything'! And I shan't 
 have to listen to constant bemoanings and bewailings 
 because it's all so different from what it used to be 
 except from you two children," finished Sister Sue, 
 a little severely. 
 
 "But, honestly, Sister Sue, what shall we do?" 
 besought May, disdainfully ignoring the challenging 
 insinuation of the last remark. 
 
 "Do? We'll do ourselves, of course," retorted 
 Sister Sue briskly. "I fancy I can do what other 
 women do, if I have to. Maybe yet I I '11 be mak- 
 ing a great name for myself as a cook. Who knows? 
 Anyhow, I ought to be as smart as Katy!" she 
 finished in a voice that shook a little, in spite of its 
 blithe cheeriness.
 
 DAYS OF ADJUSTMENT 81 
 
 "Bully for you!" This from Gordon. "I say, 
 Sister Sue, you make me hungry already. What are 
 you going to give us for luncheon?" 
 
 Sister Sue wagged her head playfully. 
 
 "I don't know, sir yet," she retorted, as she 
 turned toward the door leading to the kitchen. 
 "Come, May, it's up to us now." 
 
 But May held back. 
 
 "Me! Why, Sue, I don't know a thing about cook- 
 ing, and you know it." 
 
 "Perhaps; but you can wash dishes," pointed out 
 Sister Sue, still briskly; "and I'll warrant Katy left 
 plenty of those. Come on! I hereby dub you my 
 chief assistant." 
 
 Thus admonished, May went. But that she went 
 crossly and unwillingly was most painfully evident. 
 
 In the kitchen Sister Sue found the soiled dishes, 
 plenty of them. May said, indeed, that she did n't be- 
 lieve Katy had washed a dish since she 'd been there. 
 But she put on the apron Sister Sue brought her a 
 fussy little white muslin with bow-adorned pockets 
 (one of two bought at a fair) and she attacked the 
 dishes with much noise if with but little skill. 
 
 Sister Sue, donning the mate to her assistant's 
 apron for both of which she had rushed upstairs to 
 her bureau drawer entered the pantry, with high 
 head and high courage. 
 
 "I'll have chicken croquettes and creamed peas 
 and grilled sweet potatoes for luncheon, with new 
 apple-pie for dessert," she mused, tingling with a 
 pleasant little excitement. "Gordon loves those.
 
 82 SISTER SUE 
 
 Now where 's the cookbook?" she questioned, her 
 roving eyes searching the somewhat untidy shelves 
 before her. 
 
 Sister Sue found the cookbook but Gordon did 
 not have chicken croquettes and creamed peas and 
 grilled sweet potatoes and new apple-pie for lunch- 
 eon. He had warmed up Irish potatoes (which he ab- 
 horred) and a boiled egg (which he cared little for), 
 and a piece of stale cake for dessert. 
 
 It is a question whether Gordon was any more 
 disappointed than Sister Sue herself was. 
 
 "I was going to have chicken croquettes and 
 creamed peas and grilled sweet potatoes and a new 
 apple-pie for your luncheon, children," she apolo- 
 gized ruefully, as she set the warmed-up potatoes on 
 the table. 
 
 "Why didn't you, then?" demanded Gordon, 
 surveying with unfriendly eyes the food before him. 
 
 Sister Sue laughed shamefacedly. 
 
 "Well, I discovered pretty quick that you have to 
 have something besides a cookbook to make a meal 
 like that a real success." 
 
 "What do you mean?" frowned Gordon. 
 
 "Well, little things like cooked chicken and some 
 sweet potatoes and a can of peas, and some apples 
 help out, you know." 
 
 "But could n't you order them?" demanded May. 
 
 Again Sister Sue laughed a bit shamefacedly. 
 
 "I was going to till I happened to remember that 
 the man does n't come here for orders until nearly 
 one; and we have n't any telephone, you know. I'm
 
 DAYS OF ADJUSTMENT 83 
 
 beginning to understand now why Katy was always 
 scolding about 'h'athen folks that don't have no 
 telephone.' Of course we have missed it, all of us; but 
 I never could see why Katy should make such a fuss 
 about it. I do now," she finished, a little ruefully. 
 
 That many things besides a cookbook are needed 
 in order to make a success of housekeeping, Sister 
 Sue became increasingly aware of during those first 
 few days after Katy went. She speedily learned that 
 housekeeping is very decidedly more than a laundress 
 who does n't come and a cake of toilet soap that is 
 missing. She learned that such commodities as flour 
 and sugar and tea and coffee and lard and butter 
 and milk were not only frightfully expensive, but that 
 they had an unaccountable way of giving out at the 
 most inopportune times; and that even when every 
 tiresome ingredient called for by that inexorable 
 cookbook was present, there was still an occult some- 
 thing which she seldom seemed to have, yet without 
 which the pies and cakes and puddings and bread and 
 biscuits were a most dismal failure not at all like 
 Katy's. It began, indeed, to look very much as if she 
 were not as smart as Katy ! 
 
 She learned, too, that bow-adorned muslin aprons 
 are a poor protection against the extraordinary un- 
 tidiness that ensues from the preparation of the 
 simplest meal. While as for dishes well, May said 
 that if Katy used any more dishes than Sister Sue did 
 just to boil a potato, she would like to know it! May 
 was still washing dishes, though she, too, had long 
 since discarded the twin of the muslin apron, bought
 
 84 SISTER SUE 
 
 at a fair, substituting a stout blue gingham, loaned by 
 Mrs. Preston. 
 
 Mrs. Preston! Sister Sue wondered sometimes what 
 she would have done had it not been for Mrs. Preston. 
 Mrs. Preston had not only lovely gingham aprons, 
 but everything else that Sister Sue went to borrow 
 because of lack in her own home. To Sister Sue it was 
 really wonderful how three small rooms could contain 
 so many helpful, absolutely necessary things that 
 one wanted. It was wonderful how one small head 
 Mrs. Preston's could contain so inexhaustible a 
 fund of information as to just how much salt to put 
 in, just how long things should be baked or boiled, just 
 how to test those fearsome concoctions in the oven to 
 see if they were done. Mrs. Preston, indeed, seemed 
 to have at her tongue's end all that mysterious, occult 
 something without which anything fashioned to be 
 cooked would later run a very decided risk of being 
 a failure. Very soon Sister Sue discovered this and 
 availed herself of it. 
 
 And little by little Sister Sue had her reward. Her 
 biscuits grew less soggy, her cake less heavy, her pie- 
 crust less tough. Her meats grew more tender and her 
 vegetables more palatable. In time, too, it ceased to 
 take all her waking hours to get three meals a day 
 and keep the house in order. She had a few minutes to 
 spare for her father. 
 
 But it was not easy. Her feet and her back and her 
 legs and her head ached with the strain ; and many a 
 night she was too tired to "hit the bed," she told May. 
 She said she felt as if she were propped up on prongs
 
 DAYS OF ADJUSTMENT 85 
 
 that held her a foot above the sheet. It was not a 
 comfortable sensation. 
 
 She could not find solace or relief even in the piano, 
 these days, for there was always a cut finger or a 
 burned thumb to make playing a torture to her. For 
 that matter, it had been more or less of a torture, 
 anyway, from the very first to play on that piano, so 
 jangling on her sensitive nerves were the tinkling 
 notes that failed so miserably to respond to what she 
 was longing to express. It was becoming almost im- 
 possible, therefore, to play upon it, even before the 
 cut fingers and burned thumbs made it a physical 
 torture as well as a mental one. 
 
 Yet if ever Sister Sue had felt the need of a piano 
 safety-valve, it was now. She told herself sometimes 
 that she might yet resort to Katy's piano, and slam a 
 door or bang a pan. She felt like it. Certainly her 
 family did not hesitate to do it. Sometimes it seemed 
 to Sister Sue that they did not do anything but bang 
 their doors and slam their pans. Even her father, in 
 a gentle way, fretted a good deal at the many incon- 
 veniences of his daily living. He said that he liked 
 Gilmoreville, oh, yes, he liked it very much, for a 
 while; but he fancied they'd better go back to town 
 pretty soon. Patiently, over and over again, Sister 
 Sue would explain to him that their city home was all 
 torn up just now, and that they would be much bet- 
 ter off to remain where they were, for the present. 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes, I see, I see," the old man would 
 answer with the gentle patience that had become ha- 
 bitual with him, and with the peering eyes that seemed
 
 86 SISTER SUE 
 
 to be trying so hard to penetrate the fog that was 
 benumbing his senses. "Well, then, we had better 
 stay where we are, for the present yes." And he 
 would turn away manifestly satisfied. 
 
 And he would remain satisfied for perhaps ten 
 minutes, for perhaps ten hours. Then again he would 
 tell his daughter Sue that he liked Gilmoreville, oh, 
 yes, he liked it very well; but he fancied they'd better 
 go back to town pretty soon. And his daughter Sue 
 would draw a long breath, and say : 
 
 "Yes, Father, but our home there is all torn up, 
 and " and so on through the long, patient expla- 
 nation. 
 
 It was this necessity for making explanations over 
 and over, and then over again, that made living with 
 John Gilmore so nerve-wearing and wearisome. There 
 was always present, too, the heartache of constant as- 
 sociation with the tragedy of a wrecked mind in a fa- 
 miliar, well-loved body. But, fortunately for every- 
 body, John Gilmore was, in the main, fairly happy 
 and content with his picture-cutting and jackstraw- 
 playing, and with his dearly loved puttering about 
 the yard and garden. 
 
 May and Gordon, however, were not happy. There 
 was never any doubt about their door-slamming 
 and pan-banging. Gordon said it was the deadest 
 town he ever saw; and that he'd get out of it in the 
 fall if he had to join a circus to do it! And as for 
 expecting a fellow to live, really live, without lights 
 and hot water and bathrooms, and a few decent con- 
 veniences like that, it could n't be done! That's all!
 
 DAYS OF ADJUSTMENT 87 
 
 You just existed! And existing was n't living, not by 
 a long shot ! As for fishing and hunting there was 
 n't any; and he did n't believe the town knew what a 
 golf course or a tennis court was. How his father could 
 have endured to spend his boyhood there he could n't 
 conceive. And he wanted to know why Sister Sue 
 had n't sold that place, and gone somewhere else 
 anywhere would have been better than there. And 
 why did they let Katy go, too? She'd have stayed 
 if they 'd paid her more, he knew she would. As for 
 their thinking he could eat some of those fearful and 
 wonderful concoctions of Sister Sue's he could n't! 
 That 's all ! And they ought not to expect him to. 
 All of which were a few of Gordon's "door slams." 
 May was not far behind him. True, May washed 
 dishes and dusted occasionally; but she so bemoaned 
 the cruel fate that had cast her lot in such sad lines 
 that Sister Sue was sorely tempted sometimes to do 
 the whole thing herself. May complained, too, that 
 the soapy water and dust were ruining her hands, 
 and the hot kitchen was spoiling her complexion; 
 though she never failed to add that, of course, that 
 did n't matter in Gilmoreville; there was n't anybody 
 there, anyway, who would know or care whether her 
 hands were great red paws or not or her face blistered. 
 May disliked Gilmoreville only one degree less than 
 did her brother. She said that the few people there 
 who had money were snobs; and that the patronizing 
 airs they put on, just because a person had lost a little 
 money, were sickening, positively sickening. And as 
 for the rest of the people in the town as if anybody
 
 88 SISTER SUE 
 
 could honestly expect her to find a really congenial 
 companion among Granny Preston, old lady Whitte- 
 more, and their friends! 
 
 And there was n't a thing to do, not a thing! As for 
 her trying to write stories in a place like that, it was 
 out of the question. Martin Kent might like such 
 people for copy but not she. So that was impossi- 
 ble! She could n't even go out to walk. She never saw 
 such horrid weather, rain and mud and only two 
 sidewalks in town really fit to walk on. And as for 
 staying at home all the time, with Father always 
 around in that frightful condition, and you never 
 knew what he was going to do, or when he was going to 
 ask for folks dead and buried years ago she just 
 simply could not do it! That's all! And how Sister 
 Sue stood it, she did not know. All is, Sister Sue 
 must be very phlegmatic, and not at all sensitive, or 
 she could not do it. 
 
 All of which was merely May's way of slamming 
 doors and banging pans.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 WHAT DOES IT MATTER? 
 
 As yet Martin Kent had not visited the Gilmores at 
 all. He was to have come once, and the day was set by 
 himself; but when Sister Sue wrote him that Katy 
 had just gone and gave a very amusing account of 
 the household under her somewhat unskilled manage- 
 ment, he had written back at once that he could not 
 think of adding his presence to her already overbur- 
 dened shoulders; and that the last thing they should 
 have under the circumstances was company. He 
 added that he was glad he had the sense and con- 
 siderateness to refuse, even though they were so kind 
 as still to ask him to come. He sent a book and an 
 expensive box of candy; and his letter to Sister Sue 
 was very kind and affectionate. 
 
 Sister Sue reminded herself of this last very ear- 
 nestly in the first flush of her disappointment that he 
 was not coming. Not until the letter had arrived say- 
 ing that he would not spend the week-end with them, 
 after all, had she quite realized how much she had 
 been looking forward to the little visit as a welcome 
 break in the dead monotony of her existence. Not 
 until she knew that she was not to see him did she 
 remember what a lot of things she was treasuring up 
 to tell him funny occurrences that would make him 
 put back his head and laugh (how she loved to hear 
 Martin Kent laugh!), unique speeches that he might
 
 90 SISTER SUE 
 
 like for copy. She wanted to ask his advice, too, about 
 numberless matters. Most of all, she wanted some- 
 body out of the old life just to sit down and talk with, 
 so that she might forget, for one little minute, per- 
 haps, that the old life was not still hers. 
 
 And when the letter came, and she knew that all 
 these anticipated pleasures were not to be, she was 
 disappointed and perhaps just a bit angry at first. 
 Then is when very hastily and very earnestly she re- 
 minded herself of how affectionate and tender the 
 letter was, and that after all he was really doing it for 
 her good so as not to add to her burdens. She said 
 this to May, too, when May showed great anger at 
 the news; but May only expressed her vexation even 
 more vehemently, and added the tart assertion: 
 
 "Well, if he was my lover, Sue Gilmore, and he 
 turned down a visit to me like that, I'd know the 
 reason why or he'd get a piece of my mind." 
 
 "Nonsense! Why, he told the reason, didn't he? 
 He said he did n't want to to add to our burdens." 
 
 "Humph! If he'd wanted to see us very badly, I 
 fancy he would n't stop to think whether he was add- 
 ing to anybody's burdens or not." 
 
 But Sister Sue said "Pshaw," and "Hush, hush," 
 and "Nonsense," very sharply; but quickly, and with 
 so much emphasis, that it looked almost as if she 
 had thought of that same thing herself. 
 
 And she had. That had been one of the reasons why 
 she had so hurriedly reminded herself that the letter 
 was very affectionate and very lover-like. It was at 
 times like these that Sister Sue could not help remem-
 
 WHAT DOES IT MATTER? 91 
 
 bering the promise to marry him in July which she 
 had never been asked to renew. Not that she wanted 
 him to ask it, of course, if he did not want to, she al- 
 ways assured herself hastily; but when one had once 
 agreed to a date, it made one feel queer not to have 
 one's lover say something 
 
 At this point Sister Sue always put the thought 
 resolutely out of her mind. There were some things, 
 she decided, that it certainly did no good to think of. 
 This was one; and another was what Signer Bartoni 
 had said to her that wonderful day of the recital. 
 It did not help her to bake beans and stir up bread 
 to be thinking all the time of that "Encore! Encore' 
 Susanna Gilmore ! Encore ! " The only great " arteest " 
 she had any prospect of being at present had to do 
 with flour-sifters and rolling-pins. Better to keep her 
 mind then on the flour-sifter and the rolling-pin, she 
 declared. 
 
 But however earnestly she thus adjured herself, 
 and however "foolish" it might be to allow such 
 thoughts to occupy her mind, there were times when 
 Sister Sue found herself utterly unable to walk the 
 strait and narrow path that led through pots and 
 pans and kettles to her kitchen stove. In herthoughts 
 - though they were bitterly hopeless thoughts now 
 she was still swaying countless thousands by the 
 magic of her fingers, and she was still bowing her 
 thanks to the clamorous "Encore! Encore! Su- 
 sanna Gilmore!" 
 
 All this was in her thoughts. But in her speech 
 in her speech there were only the pots and pans and
 
 92 SISTER SUE 
 
 dustcloths of her everyday living. Sister Sue could 
 control her tongue if not her thoughts. If it did no 
 good, but rather harm, to think of joys that had 
 been, it certainly could do even less good to talk of 
 them. So Sister Sue laughed and joked, and made 
 light of pies that "ran out" and cakes that burned; 
 and merrily, many times a day she said, "Oh, well, 
 it doesn't matter!" or, "It might be a whole lot 
 worse!" or words of like import, hoping in this way 
 really to help the others and herself along the hard 
 road they were traveling. And she honestly thought 
 she was doing it. 
 
 And then came the incident of the beefsteak-pie. 
 It was not a good pie. The meat was tough, and the 
 crust, though light, was very yellow, with darker 
 yellow spots like plums scattered through it. The 
 spots did not taste at all like plums, however. They 
 had a curious, most unpleasant flavor not unlike the 
 flavor of the crust itself, only much worse. The top 
 of the pie, when Sister Sue brought it to the table, 
 displayed a beautiful golden-brown crust, and looked 
 most appetizing. Perhaps for that reason the dis- 
 appointment was all the greater when the pie was 
 cut and served, and May and Gordon, avowedly 
 "starved to death," took generous mouthfulsof that 
 yellow crust, each mouthful, as it happened, splotched 
 with a big, dark yellow "plum." 
 
 "Great Scott!" sputtered Gordon, as soon as he 
 could clear his mouth and speak. "What are you 
 giving us now? Did you build this with soap ? " 
 
 At the same minute May reached for her glass of 
 water.
 
 WHAT DOES IT MATTER? 93 
 
 "Ugh! Sue, Sister Sue! "she choked. "Whatwit?" 
 
 Sister Sue, flushing hotly, nibbled at the crust 
 and made a wry face. 
 
 "I haven't the least idea," she sighed, with a 
 shrug as of resignation. "Mrs. Preston told me just 
 how to make it, and I did it." 
 
 John Gilmore, his face plainly indicative of the bad 
 taste in his mouth, carefully poked with his fork the 
 pie-crust to one side of his plate. He looked up as 
 Sister Sue spoke. 
 
 "But why don't you let Katy do the cooking?" he 
 asked, with gentle irritation, giving another poke at 
 the offending food upon his plate. 
 
 "Katy isn't here, Father." It was perhaps al- 
 ready twenty times that Sister Sue had told him this ; 
 .but there was only a half-suppressed sigh as she told 
 it now for the twenty-first time. 
 
 "You bet she is n't!" corroborated Gordon mean- 
 ingly, making a very great show of trying to cut a 
 piece of meat. 
 
 "Yes, I guess we know that all right," chimed in 
 May, in an aggrieved voice. 
 
 Sister Sue laughed lightly. 
 
 " Now that is n't a mite complimentary to my cook- 
 ing," she pouted in mock dismay. "But, come, it 
 might be a lot worse! The gravy's good, anyway. 
 I'm glad of that. It'll be lovely on the baked pota- 
 toes." 
 
 "Will it, indeed? I'm glad you think so!" Gordon 
 spoke with the sarcasm of a hungry man who has been 
 offered a stone for bread.
 
 94 SISTER SUE 
 
 But it was from May that came the avalanche. 
 
 " Glad? Of course she 's glad ! She 's glad for every- 
 thing!" stormed the girl, with sudden wrath. "She 
 likes things here, Gordon ! She likes the house and the 
 town and the people in it! She likes to be without 
 lights and gas and hot water, and no maid at all ! She 
 likes it, likes it!" 
 
 "Why, May!" gasped Sister Sue unbelievingly. 
 
 "Well, you do, you know you do!" retorted May. 
 "You don't mind things here at all, and you know it. 
 You don't mind horrid old smelly kerosene lamps, 
 and wearing old clothes, and doing your own work. 
 You're always laughing and saying it might be worse, 
 and never mind ! And you don't care a bit how we 're 
 suffering. You try to make us like it, too. Here you 
 are even trying to make us like this old soapy pie to- 
 day! But you can't do it! We're hungry! We want 
 something to eat! And you laugh and tell us to eat 
 the gravy on our baked potatoes; that it'll be lovely! 
 Lovely, indeed! If you'd only show some sympathy 
 with what we have to bear, we should n't mind it. 
 We could stand things. But you don't care! You 
 know you don't care! You like it here! You laugh, 
 no matter what 't is, and tell us it might be worse. 
 But I tell you it could n't be worse! Nothing could 
 be worse than what we have here every single day 
 of our lives here ! " 
 
 And with a choking sob May pushed back her chair 
 and rushed from the room. 
 
 And Sister Sue Sister Sue sat motionless, her 
 eyes looking straight ahead. In her ears were ringing
 
 WHAT DOES IT MATTER? 95 
 
 May's words, " You like it here you like it ! " But in 
 her ears also was ringing, like an echo, away off in the 
 distance, "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! En- 
 core!" 
 
 A hand plucked at her sleeve. 
 
 "Sue, Sue, Sister Sue, why don't you answer me? 
 I said what was May talking about?" 
 
 Sister Sue turned. She gave a weary little smile. 
 
 "Nothing, Father, that you would understand 
 or that she understands either. Don't try to eat the 
 crust. Let me give you some bread for that gravy," 
 she finished, reaching for his plate. 
 
 The meal was then concluded in silence, save for 
 the one remark from John Gilmore, apropos of 
 nothing: 
 
 "I should think, Sue, you would have Katy do the 
 cooking." 
 
 Sister Sue's hands shook a little when she was clear- 
 ing off the table that noon. They still were not quite 
 steady all the while she was washing the dishes and 
 putting the kitchen in order May did not come in 
 to help. But Sister Sue was yet apparently very cool 
 and calm when she ran up the back stairs at two 
 o'clock to Mrs. Preston's rooms. 
 
 "Mrs. Preston, what is it that ails things when 
 they're yellow, and taste awfully, like like soap?" 
 she demanded a little breathlessly, dropping herself 
 into a chair. 
 
 Mrs. Preston's shrewd blue eyes twinkled as she 
 answered : 
 
 "SaPratus, most likely. What is the matter now? "
 
 96 SISTER SUE 
 
 "But you told me to use it, Mrs. Preston! You said 
 when I used sour milk to put in saleratus. And I did.'* 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 "Oh, I put in enough!" cried Sister Sue quickly. 
 "I know I did that; for after I got the dough almost 
 mixed it was for a beef steak-pie-crust I could 
 n't remember whether I 'd put in the saleratus or not. 
 So I put in the full dose then, so 's to be sure to have 
 plenty. I knew enough not to try to be economical 
 over that ! " she finished, in obvious pride of well- 
 doing. 
 
 "Oh, you did! Well, I guess you did put in a 
 plenty." Mrs. Preston's shoulders were shaking with 
 poorly suppressed mirth. 
 
 Sister Sue lifted her chin a little. 
 
 "Well, what have I done now?" she demanded. 
 "Oh, I know I've done something, of course!" She 
 spoke with much bravado; but there was a tense 
 harshness in her voice that hinted at tragedy, which 
 should have given warning but it did not. 
 
 "You put in just two times too much, child; an' 
 sal'ratus ain't a thing ter stand no triflin'. Oh, I know 
 how it looked yaller 's saffron, an' brown spots all 
 through it that tasted " 
 
 "I found out how they tasted," interrupted Sis- 
 ter Sue bitterly. The bravado was all gone now. 
 There was left only the tragedy in her voice. 
 
 She fell silent then, her eyes moodily fixed out the 
 window. 
 
 For a time the little old woman watched her over 
 the tops of her glasses. Then she spoke:
 
 WHAT DOES IT MATTER? 97 
 
 "Now, listen, dearie. I just would n't let a little 
 thing like too much sal'ratus sp'ile my life," she be- 
 gan soothingly. 
 
 But Sister Sue, as if stung into instant action, 
 sprang to her feet. 
 
 "Spoil it? Why, of course not," she cried in a 
 blithe voice, beginning to pace up and down the 
 room. "But, then, I could n't spoil it, Mrs. Preston. 
 You don't understand. I like the town and the house 
 and the people ! I like to be without lights and hot 
 water and gas and telephones ! I like kerosene lamps 
 and old clothes! And I like beefsteak-pie that's all 
 yellow and brown and tastes like soap!" 
 
 Sister Sue stopped for breath, but only for breath. 
 Before the dumbfounded little woman in the big chair 
 could speak, Sister Sue was hurrying on again, her 
 feet still restlessly pacing up and down the room. 
 
 "And I have n't a bit of sympathy with anybody 
 who doesn't like them! I'm always laughing and 
 singing, and saying that it does n't matter, and it 
 might be worse, and, anyhow, we can be glad the 
 gravy's good for the baked potatoes; and so of course 
 I have n't any sympathy. And that's because I like 
 it! I like it ! I LIKE IT! And " But Sister Sue did 
 not finish her sentence. With a little choking sob she 
 threw herself into a chair and covered her face with 
 her hands. 
 
 For a few moments she sobbed on, unmolested. 
 Mrs. Preston was still watching her over the tops of 
 her glasses. There was no dumbfounded amazement 
 on Mrs. Preston's face now. There were indignation
 
 98 SISTER SUE 
 
 and sympathy; but there was also a shrewd look of 
 understanding. 
 
 When the sobs had become quieter and a little less 
 frequent, Mrs. Preston spoke: 
 
 "So that's what they've been say in' to ye, is it, 
 dearie that you hain't no sympathy with 'em?" 
 
 The girl straightened up with a jerk. A dismayed 
 look came into her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, what have I said, what have I said? ' she 
 moaned. "Forget it! It wasn't anything, really. 
 I I was just talking. I I'm tired, Mrs. Preston. 
 Please forget it!" And again Sister Sue sprang to 
 her feet and began to pace up and down the room. 
 
 "Come, come, child, I ain't deaf nor blind," de- 
 clared the irate little old woman, with an impatient 
 gesture; "an' I ain't such a big fool as some folks 
 thinks I am. Now you might just as well own up. 
 They said it that brother an' sister of yours. They 
 said you did n't have no sympathy with 'em, just 
 because you don't growl an' scold an' find fault all 
 the time like they do." 
 
 Sister Sue wheeled agitatedly and stopped short. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Preston, I did n't I never did say 
 that!" 
 
 "Maybe not; but I did," smiled the old woman 
 grimly. "An' 't was true, too. You can't deny it." 
 
 Sister Sue flushed a painful scarlet. 
 
 "I know; but that is, I mean," she stammered, 
 " they did n't say it just like that; and and I ought 
 not to have said anything, anyway. They they 
 were just hungry, and disappointed over that pie, you
 
 WHAT DOES IT MATTER? 99 
 
 know. And, really, Mrs. Preston, it did taste awfully 
 -that pie!" 
 
 "An' you told 'em to never mind, an' it might be 
 worse, an' the gravy was good, anyhow. Now, did n't 
 you?" 
 
 "Well, I I only meant to to help." 
 
 "An', of course, as long as you like it here so well, 
 an' like ter cook an' wash dishes, an' " 
 
 "Like it! Like it!" stormed the girl, turning sud- 
 denly and beginning her nervous pacing of the room 
 again. " Do you suppose I can like it when all the time 
 I'm thinking, thinking, of what I want to do of 
 what I might have done? And I was going to do it. 
 I was going to do something really worth while. I was 
 going to make them all proud of me. And I could I 
 know I could! I could feel it in me. And Signer Bar- 
 toni said " 
 
 Once again she told the story. On and on she talked, 
 feverishly, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushing, her 
 whole self tingling with the joy and relief of pour- 
 ing into sympathetic ears the pent-up yearnings 
 and heart-burnings of long weeks of silence. And so 
 vividly did she draw the picture that even the little 
 old woman opposite, to whom music meant the 
 church hymn-book and "The Maiden's Prayer," 
 caught a fleeting vision of a radiant Sister Sue bow- 
 ing her appreciation of a clamorous "Encore! En- 
 core! Susanna Gilmore! Encore!" 
 
 Then for both of them came the sudden descent to 
 earth. 
 
 "But what what am I saying!" cried Sister Sue,
 
 100 SISTER SUE 
 
 sinking into her chair again. "I I did n't mean to 
 say all that," she sighed wearily. 
 
 "Humph!" The little old woman's eyes were very 
 bright. "They know about this, I suppose your 
 brother an' sister?" 
 
 "That I wanted to become a concert pianist? Oh, 
 yes," nodded Sister Sue, with indifferent acquies- 
 cence. 
 
 "Then what makes 'em think you like this?" 
 
 The girl laughed a little bitterly. 
 
 "Oh, I suppose because I I'm always telling 
 them that we can be glad the gravy 's good with the 
 potatoes, anyway," she shrugged. 
 
 "Eh? What? That the gravy's good with the 
 oh, I see," chuckled Mrs. Preston, the light of 
 sudden understanding clearing her puzzled counte- 
 nance. 
 
 "It was only that I was trying to help make things 
 easier," sighed the girl, half apologetically, with a 
 faint smile. 
 
 "An* they wa'n't in the mood ter have things made 
 easier that way." 
 
 "Apparently not," agreed Sister Sue; then, with 
 spirit, she amended: "But it really doesn't do any 
 good to keep fretting over things we can't possibly 
 help, you know." 
 
 "Maybe not. Still, I think I'd try it if I was you," 
 suggested the little old woman imperturbably. 
 
 "You would what?" frowned the girl. 
 
 "Try it. Try fretting. Join in sympathize with 
 them, you know. They wanted sympathy. Well,
 
 WHAT DOES IT MATTER? 101 
 
 show 'em that you do sympathize with them that 
 you don't like things any better than they do." 
 
 Sister Sue stared frankly, her eyes incredulous. 
 Then suddenly she laughed. With brisk alacrity she 
 got to her feet. 
 
 "Granny Preston, you're a dear," she chuckled. 
 "And I'll try it, I promise." Then, over her shoulder 
 as she whisked out of the room, she called back: "It 
 is n't only how much saleratus to put in sour milk 
 that you know, is it?" 
 
 Behind her she left a little straight-backed old 
 woman who sat smiling for a long time all by herself. 
 
 Sister Sue began that same afternoon to "sym- 
 pathize." 
 
 Mrs. Whipple called. Sister Sue was looking over 
 some beans to put to soak that night when May came 
 into the kitchen to tell her that the lady was coming 
 up the walk. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" Sister Sue scowled, but she did not 
 rise from her chair. She picked up another handful 
 of beans and spread them out on her firm, rosy palm. 
 
 "What a shame! You see her, May, there's a good 
 girl." 
 
 May fell back in amazement. 
 
 "Why, Sue, are you crazy? You know I shan't see 
 her! I never see these people! They simply drive me 
 crazy, and you know it!" 
 
 The doorbell jangled sharply, and with an impa- 
 tient gesture Sister Sue rose to her feet. 
 
 "Yes, I know, and I don't blame you for not liking 
 to see them. I don't, either. They're stupid, tiresome
 
 102 SISTER SUE 
 
 things, most of them; and why they will insist on 
 coming to see us, I don't understand. However, I Ve 
 got to see her, of course, I suppose, since you won't." 
 And she disappeared through the doorway, leaving 
 behind her a girl with a slightly puzzled frown on her 
 face. 
 
 When the caller had gone, Sister Sue went back to 
 her beans. She looked up crossly when her sister 
 May again entered the kitchen. 
 
 "You did n't finish my beans, I notice," she com- 
 plained. "I should think 't was bad enough to see 
 all the callers without having to come back out here 
 and do the work besides." 
 
 Once more May fell back in obvious amazement. 
 
 "Why, Sister Sue, I I never do do that part 
 of the work, and you know it!" she gasped. 
 
 "Oh, I don't blame you for not liking it," retorted 
 Sister Sue, dropping herself down to the table and 
 diving her hand deep into the bag of beans. "I don't 
 like it myself. If there 's one thing in this world that 's 
 more deadly tiresome to do than housework, I should 
 like to know what it is. It's just cook and wash 
 dishes and clean up, and cook and do dishes and clean 
 up from one day's end to the other; and I hate it! 
 I hate it! And" 
 
 She did not finish her sentence, for she found her- 
 self alone. May had fled. And Sister Sue smiled. 
 
 This was only the beginning. It was really sur- 
 prising how many things Sister Sue found to fret 
 about during the rest of the day. It was too hot. 
 The air was horrid. Her feet ached. Her head ached.
 
 WHAT DOES IT MATTER? 103 
 
 Her wrists pained her. The fire would n't burn. The 
 lamp smoked. She hated kerosene, anyway. She 
 never did see how anybody could cut the wick so 
 there would n't be a horrid index finger somewhere. 
 She really dreaded to go to bed. She would like to 
 sleep in a decent bed once more before she died, but 
 she never expected to. And where all the flies and 
 mosquitoes came from, she could n't imagine. For 
 her part she did n't see what such little pests were 
 for, anyway. She supposed the world could have been 
 made without such things in it! 
 
 And so it went. Not only did Sister Sue have these 
 many grievances of her own to complain of, but she 
 always joined heartily with whatever May or Gor- 
 don had to say about these annoyances. She never 
 remonstrated with them indeed, no. She agreed 
 with them. She applauded them. She said she thought 
 so, too, every time, and she never did see anything 
 that was so perfectly horrid! 
 
 If she saw the puzzled frown and perplexed glances 
 on the faces of her brother and sister, she gave no sign. 
 Her own countenance was serenely non-committal, 
 except when she was openly scolding; then it was fret- 
 ful and scowling, as it would naturally be, of course. 
 
 The next morning Sister Sue was sleepy. She told 
 the family at breakfast how she had hated to get up, 
 and how perfectly horrid it was that they had to get 
 up so early now. The sun was shining brightly, but 
 she declared she knew it was going to rain before 
 night. And when Gordon said he guessed it was going 
 to be a pretty hot day, she said yes, indeed, it was; that
 
 104 SISTER SUE 
 
 in her opinion it was going to be the hottest yet. And 
 that people might talk all they wanted to about the 
 city's being hot, but if it was any hotter than Gil- 
 moreville was already and barely July yet she 
 would like to know it, that's all. 
 
 Gordon did not say any more then about the 
 weather. He turned his attention to his breakfast. 
 There were graham rolls, soggy graham rolls, with 
 too much salt in them. Gordon did not like] them 
 and he said so. 
 
 Sister Sue promptly agreed with him. She repeated 
 what she had said to May the afternoon before about 
 cooking, only adding a great deal more to it, and 
 reiterating again how she hated it. 
 
 Gordon actually blinked a little at the vehemence 
 of some of his sister's remarks; but he said no more 
 about the rolls. Later, just as he was finishing, how- 
 ever, he did remark that he did wish there was some- 
 thing, something, in that deadest of dead towns that 
 a fellow could do. 
 
 Sister Sue took up the matter at once with the 
 deepest of sympathy. She said it was too bad. It was 
 a shame. And that she certainly never saw such a 
 forlorn place, and she hated it, too, and would give 
 anything to get away from it. That she sympathized 
 with him thoroughly. 
 
 At the word "sympathized" May sat suddenly 
 erect in her chair. 
 
 "Sister Sue!" she cried accusingly. "Is that what 
 you've been doing?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" In spite of herself, Sister 
 Sue's lips twitched.
 
 WHAT DOES IT MATTER? 105 
 
 "Gordon!" May turned now to her brother. 
 "She's been sympathizing with us; that's what 
 she's been doing sympathizing with us!" 
 
 "Oh, that?" Sister Sue interposed quickly, cheer- 
 fully. "Why, yes, of course that's what I've been 
 doing. You said you wanted me to, you know 
 that 't would be lots easier for you if I would. And of 
 course it's lots easier for me to spit right out my 
 feelings, you know; and as long as you want me to " 
 
 "Want you to!" cut in two dismayed voices. 
 Then Gordon exploded : " Well, by George, if that 's 
 what you've been doing " He stopped helplessly. 
 
 "Yes, if that's what you've been doing," chimed 
 in May; and she stopped, also. 
 
 They looked at each other, then at Sister Sue. Sister 
 Sue's lips were still twitching. There was a moment's 
 hesitation, then all three together they laughed. 
 
 There was nothing more said; but for at least one 
 entire day the Gilmore family were astonishingly 
 well content with their lot if appearances counted for 
 anything. Even in the days that immediately fol- 
 lowed, when the old fretful words would come back 
 to the lips of Gordon and May as come they most 
 emphatically did it needed only a demure "Well, 
 I surely do sympathize with you, I do," from the lips 
 of Sister Sue to bring about a prompt and significant 
 silence accompanied, if in the case of Gordon, by a 
 sheepish grin; if in the case of May, by a half -petulant 
 shrug. 
 
 But it all helped. Even Gordon and May acknowl- 
 edged that to themselves. And Sister Sue knew it.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 VISITORS AND CONSEQUENCES 
 
 IT was on a hot July day that Sister Sue received the 
 letter from Martin Kent saying that since they seemed 
 so ardently to want to see him, he was coming, though 
 he was still a little fearful, he said, lest his visit be a 
 burden to them. However, he would come for the 
 week-end, arriving Saturday at four o'clock. And of 
 course he was eager to see them, as they would know 
 that he must be. And he closed with a very beautiful 
 and very tender sentiment that would have held the 
 eyes of most girls for the lingering reading over and 
 over of the words. 
 
 But not so Sister Sue. Sister Sue barely skimmed 
 through the closing paragraph before she looked up 
 with startled eyes. 
 
 "Martin is coming. He's coming Saturday," she 
 announced hurriedly to her brother and sister. "But 
 I don't understand. He writes as if if we 'd been 
 urging him to come, lately." Her eyes went from 
 Gordon's face to May's. On May's they paused, their 
 pupils dilating in startled questioning. "May, you 
 did n't say anything?" 
 
 May shrugged her shoulders daintily. 
 
 "Now, Sister Sue, don't look so shocked," she 
 pouted. "Of course I did n't say anything much. 
 I just wrote him how lonesome we were." 
 
 "Mayl"
 
 VISITORS AND CONSEQUENCES 107 
 
 "Well, I guess I've got a right to tell my future 
 brother-in-law how tired and worn out you are get- 
 ting," bridled May, looking very superior indeed; 
 "and that we were just stagnating in this awful place, 
 and we 'd give anything to see a real man once more, 
 and" 
 
 "Oh, May!" remonstrated Sister Sue again, falling 
 back in her chair with a gesture of dismay. 
 
 "Well, I don't care," maintained the younger girl 
 stoutly. "He's coming, anyhow. I don't care if you 
 do scold. Besides, I should think you'd want to see 
 him. I would if he were engaged to me!" 
 
 "Hush! Be still. Of course I want to see him," 
 protested Sister Sue, "if he wants to be seen. Not 
 otherwise. We don't want to urge unwilling vis- 
 itors, remember," she finished a little coldly, as she 
 rose to her feet and turned to leave the room. 
 
 Martin Kent came at the appointed time on Sat- 
 urday. Gordon met him at the station. They came 
 home in the town "bus." Gordon had wanted to ask 
 Mrs. Kendall for the car. But Sister Sue said no, 
 indeed, no ! And she had said it so emphatically that 
 he had not liked to urge the matter. Mrs. Kendall, 
 besides coming to the station after them on the day of 
 their arrival, had taken them all for a ride two or 
 three times in a somewhat stiff "Of-course-I-under- 
 stand, it's-my-duty-you-know" way (according to 
 May), and she had told Sister Sue that she would be 
 glad to lend the car and the chauffeur to her some day 
 for calls if she liked. But Sister Sue had never availed 
 herself of the privilege; and she told Gordon that
 
 108 SISTER SUE 
 
 nothing would induce her to ask for the car to go and 
 meet Martin Kent. 
 
 Martin was looking well. He said he was well, 
 though he was working very hard just now correcting 
 proofs. The book was to come out in October. It 
 was to be called " Trixie." He said that it was a won- 
 derful novel. Then he laughed and apologized for 
 being so conceited, but declared that it really was a 
 wonderful novel, and had developed into something 
 away beyond his expectations. He said the publish- 
 ers thought very highly of it, too; and that they really 
 had great hopes of its being a fine success. 
 
 Sister Sue said she was glad, she was sure. May 
 clapped her hands rapturously, and declared she'd 
 known all along it would be a success. Gordon 
 grunted out something, an indeterminate something 
 that might have passed for almost anything. Mr. 
 John Gilmore was not present. He was out in the 
 garden caring for his flowers. Mr. John Gilmore was 
 spending a great deal of time in his garden these days, 
 and very happily. 
 
 After Martin Kent told of his book he told of the 
 city and their friends, most of whom Tiad left town for 
 the summer, he said. He talked then of the new 
 books he had read, and the new celebrities he had 
 met since the Gilmores had left Boston. He told 
 them of the invitations he had had for the summer 
 charming places, charming people, seashore and 
 mountains. But he said he was not going to accept 
 any of them. He had made up his mind. He was 
 coming up to Gilmoreville just as soon as he could
 
 VISITORS AND CONSEQUENCES 109 
 
 maybe by the twentieth and stay at the Inn. He 
 would have a real rest then, and be near them, where 
 he could see them every day. 
 
 May clapped her hands at this and drew an ecstatic 
 sigh. 
 
 "Oh, Martin, you've saved our lives!" she gurgled. 
 "It seemed as if I just couldn't stand it all sum- 
 mer, without somebody. But now oh, I 'm so glad ! 
 Are n't we, Sister Sue?" 
 
 "Of course we are if the gentleman thinks he 
 can stand Gilmoreville ! " There were two little red 
 spots in Sister Sue's cheeks and an odd little sparkle 
 to her eyes; but her lips were smiling and her voice 
 was cheerfully cordial. 
 
 "Oh, but I think Gilmoreville is lovely, and you 
 know what I think of the people in it some of 
 them!" Martin Kent, having exhausted the subject 
 of himself and his own affairs, was ready now to talk 
 of something else. "You certainly have a fine old 
 place here." 
 
 "You would n't think so if you had to live in it," 
 sniffed May. "No hot water, no gas, no electric 
 lights, no nothing!" 
 
 "Look out!" warned Gordon. "Sister Sue '11 be 
 sympathizing with you, May." 
 
 Martin Kent looked slightly dazed. 
 
 "Sympathizing with you! Well, why shouldn't 
 she?" he demanded. "Does n't she?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, she does," laughed May. 
 
 "You bet she does," grinned Gordon. 
 
 Sister Sue laughed this time with them; but when
 
 110 SISTER SUE 
 
 Martin Kent asked why their merriment, not one of 
 them would tell him. 
 
 In the evening, after supper, Sister Sue and Martin 
 Kent had an hour to themselves on the vine-shaded 
 veranda. Martin told his fiancee how he had missed 
 her, and how bare and empty the city was without 
 her. He spoke very beautifully, very tenderly, and 
 he quoted some exquisite poetry he had written es- 
 pecially for her. And he spoke of how blissfully 
 happy they were going to be when they were married. 
 He bemoaned the fact that he was so poor; but he 
 said that when his novel was the big success it was 
 going to be, then He did not finish his sentence 
 in words; but the kiss he gave her was more elo- 
 quent than any words could have been. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. Martin Kent went to 
 church in the morning with May and Gordon. Sister 
 Sue had to stay at home to be with her father and to 
 get dinner. In the afternoon May stayed with her 
 father while Sister Sue and Martin Kent went for a 
 walk on the hill back of the house. 
 
 They had a very beautiful walk. Sun, air, earth 
 each vied with the other to be at its best. Martin 
 Kent quoted more exquisite poetry, and even com- 
 posed some on the spot in celebration of the wonder- 
 ful fact that they were together at last, out under 
 God's blue sky. He talked more, too, of what they 
 would do when they were married and of how happy 
 they would be. 
 
 Then they went home. Sister Sue had supper to 
 get.
 
 
 THEY HAD A VERY BEAUTIFUL WALK
 
 VISITORS AND CONSEQUENCES 111 
 
 Early Monday morning Martin Kent went back to 
 Boston. He said that he had had a most wonderful 
 visit, and that he was going back to the city rested 
 and refreshed. 
 
 Sister Sue, after he had gone, acknowledged to 
 herself that she was neither rested nor refreshed. She 
 had enjoyed being with him oh, yes. And he had 
 said many beautiful things she admitted that. 
 But she felt tired and curiously depressed. She laid 
 it partly to the nerve strain of preparing meals for 
 company with the inevitable worrying lest they be 
 not a success, and partly to the other strain of trying 
 to keep her father from annoying Martin Kent with 
 his presence. 
 
 Martin Kent did not like to be with John Gilmore. 
 He indicated that very plainly. He did not like to 
 have John Gilmore show him his pictures or his 
 flower-beds. And John Gilmore very plainly wanted 
 to do just those things; which made it hard for Sister 
 Sue. Martin Kent told Sister Sue that it was like 
 putting a knife of torture into his heart to talk with 
 her father and see the wreck of that magnificent 
 mind. 
 
 Naturally Sister Sue did not want a knife of tor- 
 ture put into Martin Kent's heart certainly not by 
 anything of hers ; so she had made every effort all 
 through the visit to keep the two men apart. It had 
 not been an easy task, however, for John Gilmore, 
 for some inexplicable reason, took a very sudden and 
 very violent fancy to Martin Kent at the outset of 
 his visit.
 
 112 SISTER SUE 
 
 It was partly because of this, therefore, Sister Sue 
 told herself, that she was feeling so particularly tired 
 after Martin Kent's visit. Not that she blamed Mar- 
 tin Kent indeed, no ! It was not exactly a pleasant 
 experience to be in daily companionship with John 
 Gilmore, as none knew better than she herself. 
 
 Sister Sue was still unrested when the telegram 
 came from Daniel Loring. It came that afternoon, 
 and it said that Mr. Loring would be in Gilmoreville 
 the next day and would call upon them at ten o'clock. 
 
 Sister Sue immediately felt more depressed than 
 ever. 
 
 "Oh, of course, I knew he was coming soon," she 
 sighed, after telling May of the contents of the tele- 
 gram. "But, some way, I've always dreaded it." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, we'll know more, of course, then, how we 
 stand. We '11 know better how much money we Ve 
 got." 
 
 "Well, I don't see how we can be any worse off 
 than we are now," contended May, with a pout. 
 
 Sister Sue laughed. 
 
 "Oh, yes, it might be worse, you know," she de- 
 clared significantly, her eyes flashing a merry glance 
 into her sister's face. "Anyhow, whatever it is, we Ve 
 got to stand it," she said a little more soberly as she 
 left the room. 
 
 Promptly on the minute Daniel Loring appeared 
 the next morning. Sister Sue met him alone in the 
 living-room. He took off his panama, applied his 
 handkerchief to his forehead with an energy that
 
 VISITORS AND CONSEQUENCES 113 
 
 showed his embarrassment as he remarked that it was 
 a warm day and that he hoped he found them well. 
 Then, because he was a business man who used few 
 words and who always came straight to the point, he 
 said: 
 
 "I'm sorry, but I have n't very good news for you. 
 There's very little left but this house. You have 
 that, however, unencumbered. And there is a small 
 sum which will give you income enough for the re- 
 pairs and taxes, and a very little more toward living 
 expenses, perhaps. That is all. I'm sorry. I'm very 
 sorry that the daughter of my old friend " He did 
 not finish his sentence. He was blowing his nose 
 vigorously. 
 
 "But what are we going to do?" faltered the 
 girl. 
 
 "Somebody will have to to earn some money." 
 
 "But how can I? I can't leave Father; and now 
 there's the housework." 
 
 Mr. Loring frowned and blew his nose again. 
 
 "Are you the the only member of your family 
 able to work?" he demanded. 
 
 "Yes, oh, yes." She spoke with hurried decision. 
 "You can't mean Father, of course. As for May and 
 Gordon why, Mr. Loring, they are just counting 
 on school and college." 
 
 "I'm afraid they'll have to count the money first," 
 vouchsafed the man grimly. 
 
 Sister Sue relaxed in her chair. 
 
 " But, Mr. Loring, what can I do? Of course I can 
 play, and I can teach. I was planning to once."
 
 114 SISTER SUE 
 
 Her voice broke, then went on resolutely. " But all 
 that is impossible now. I've given it up. I can't 
 leave Father." 
 
 "Your sister?" 
 
 "Must go on with her studies. I can't have her life 
 spoiled, too. She is really very talented. She wants 
 to write. She has written some, and has done beauti- 
 fully. Mr. Kent says so. But of course she needs 
 training. And I want her to have it. Mr. Loring, she 
 must have it! I can't let her life be spoiled, like mine. 
 She was planning on entering college this fall. As for 
 Gordon he has one more year where he is, and I 
 wanted him to finish there. But it is an expensive 
 school, and I suppose he could take the last year in 
 the High School here I understand they fit for col- 
 lege. But, Mr. Loring, Gordon can't work" 
 
 The man gave a gesture, half impatient, half re- 
 signed. 
 
 "All right, all right, I'm not saying he can, though 
 I've seen boys of his age However, somebody's 
 got to." He hesitated, then went on with obvious 
 reluctance: "Couldn't you teach here, then? You 
 would n't have to leave your father to do that." 
 
 Sister Sue's worried face broke into a broad smile. 
 Her eyes twinkled. 
 
 "Mr. Loring, I don't want to seem conceited or 
 egotistical, but I played really adult 'show pieces' 
 when I was ten, before I could stretch the octave. 
 This spring Signer Bartoni told me I was capable of 
 teaching the most advanced pupils in the Conserva- 
 tory, and that for private lessons I should charge five
 
 VISITORS AND CONSEQUENCES 115 
 
 dollars each. Do you think Susie Smith and Nellie 
 French, down the lane here, would want me to teach 
 them my kind of music, or pay me the price if they 
 did?" 
 
 "Hm; perhaps not, perhaps not," murmured the 
 man, with a frown. 
 
 "Besides, I doubt if they'd want to take of 
 me" sighed the girl. " I don't think we 're very popu- 
 lar here, Mr. Loring. They remember we have been 
 rich. We 're poor now. I doubt if they 'd come, any- 
 way." 
 
 "Humph!" grunted Mr. Loring, still frowning, as 
 he fumbled for some papers in his coat. "I'm afraid 
 I know nothing about such things, nothing. But these 
 I do know about and you '11 have to. So if you '11 
 kindly give me your attention," he finished, spread- 
 ing one of the folded papers open for her. 
 
 When Mr. Loring had gone, some time later, Sister 
 Sue sat for a long time thinking. To May's questions 
 and Gordon's she made scant reply, except to say that 
 it was rather bad and they had very little to live on. 
 What they were to do or how they were to do it, she 
 refused to discuss. 
 
 After the dinner was cleared away she hurried up- 
 stairs to Mrs. Preston's. 
 
 " I 'm afraid you think I run to you with every prob- 
 lem," she apologized, a little ruefully, as she entered 
 the room. "But you see, you seem to know every- 
 thing." 
 
 "Oh, there's many that's wiser than me, an' don't
 
 116 SISTER SUE 
 
 know it," bridled the little old woman, plainly not 
 ill-pleased; "an' there's some that ain't so wise an* 
 don't know that" she chuckled. "But what is it ter- 
 day? somethin' ter eat or somethin' ter wear?" 
 
 "Neither one or, rather, it's both, I suppose, 
 really." Sister Sue dropped a little wearily into a 
 chair. "It's money. Mrs. Preston, do you know any 
 kind of work that I can do at home here, to earn 
 money? Now please don't say to do sewing. You 
 know how poor I am at that, from the way I 've had 
 to run to you every time I took a needle in my hand, 
 almost. But do you know of anything I can do?" 
 
 Mrs. Preston sat suddenly even more erect. Her 
 face had become alight. She had the air of one to 
 whom has come a long-awaited joy. 
 
 "Sure I do. You can teach." 
 
 "You don't mean music?" 
 
 "Sure I mean music! What else would I be mean- 
 in', an' you with all your studyin' an' trainin'?" She 
 asked the question a little aggressively. 
 
 "But that's just it, Mrs. Preston, I've had too 
 much training," sighed the girl. "There's nobody 
 here that would want such advanced instruction or 
 that would pay the price." 
 
 "Well, I like that!" The little old lady sat back 
 in her chair and eyed her visitor with whimsical 
 exasperation. "An' so because they don't want angel 
 cakes you refuse to teach 'em how to make bread?" 
 
 "I what?" 
 
 "Humph! How would you have liked it if when 
 you come askin' me how ter stir up a tin o' biscuit,
 
 VISITORS AND CONSEQUENCES 117 
 
 I had told yer with my nose in the air that I never 
 teached nothin' but weddin' cake." 
 
 Sister Sue laughed merrily. 
 
 "And am I like that?" she demanded. 
 
 '* I think you be. You can teach scales an' them five- 
 finger things, could n't ye?" queried the old woman. 
 
 "Why, y-yes, I suppose so," admitted the girl 
 doubtfully, though her eyes were still merry. 
 
 "Well, then; an' I suppose you'd take one dollar 
 if you could n't get five, wouldn't ye? 'specially if 
 ye got enough of 'em ter more 'n make up for the five 
 kind." 
 
 "Why, y-yes, of course," conceded the girl. "But 
 who would come to me for lessons?" 
 
 "Susie Smith an' Julia Small an' Nellie French an' 
 Millie Sargent an' Charlie Burt an' " 
 
 "But, Mrs. Preston, you speak as if you knew" 
 interrupted the girl. 
 
 "I do know. They're just waitin' ter come when 
 you say the word; an' at a dollar a lesson an' glad 
 ter pay it, 'cause they feel they 're gettin' somethin' 
 special from you." 
 
 " But but " The girl was on her feet now, her 
 eyes shining, but incredulous. 
 
 "An' the see-leci men want you for the graded 
 schools here in Gilmoreville, ter teach music in 'em; 
 an' Mr. Spencer, down ter the Junction, he wants you 
 one day a week when school opens there," went on 
 Mrs. Preston calmly, ignoring the dazed exclamations 
 of the girl across the room. "Oh, you'll have plenty 
 ter do when you say the word," she nodded.
 
 118 SISTER SUE 
 
 "But but how can I, with the housework and 
 all?" Sister Sue dropped back into her chair, the 
 elation all gone from her eyes. 
 
 As if by the same signal the little old woman sat 
 more erect again. 
 
 "My daughter Delia her Tom's dead, now, an' 
 left her with little Paul, so she 's free Delia, she 'd 
 like ter come an' do yer work fer ye, an' she'd do it 
 cheap, too, if you'd be willin' ter let the baby play out 
 in the back yard here. An' she could help me some, 
 spare time, I know. I need her, too. I ain't so young 
 as I was once. So her pay would n't be so high fer you, 
 an* she'd more'n save her wages, anyway (compared 
 ter your way of doin' things!), usin' up odds an' ends 
 an' cookin' economical." 
 
 Sister Sue was sitting forward now with her eyes 
 frankly staring. 
 
 "But, Mrs. Preston, you sound as if if you'd got 
 this all arranged beforehand ! " 
 
 "I have. They come ter me first fer the lessons, 
 askin' if you would give 'em, I mean; then I thought 
 up the rest, about Delia an' her workin' here. I knew 
 you'd have ter have some one, with all that ter do." 
 
 "But why have n't you said anything to me of all 
 this?" 
 
 "I was waitin'." 
 
 "Waiting!" 
 
 "Yes; till you come ter yer senses. I knew some 
 day you'd see how foolish you was to bury your light 
 under a bushel basket like this. An' I knew you'd 
 want some money, too. An', besides, I suspected
 
 VISITORS AND CONSEQUENCES 119 
 
 sometime you'd get tired of of eatin' bread with 
 that gravy." 
 
 "Bread? gravy?" frowned Sister Sue. 
 
 The little old woman nodded her head, her shrewd 
 eyes twinkling. 
 
 "Yes. I suspected some day you'd be wantin' 
 somebody else ter make yer beefsteak-pies fer ye, so 
 you could eat the crust." 
 
 "Oh!" laughed Sister Sue. "Oh, ho!" Then she 
 pouted with a playful grimace: "I can cook better 
 than that now; indeed I can, Mrs. Preston!" 
 
 "I don't doubt it. But there ain't much money in 
 it, just the same, is there? Well, there is in my plan. 
 An' this minute there 's at least eight all ready, with 
 the dollar right in their fists, waitin'. An' I don't 
 know how much the schools '11 pay." 
 
 Sister Sue clapped her hands and drew a long 
 breath quite after the fashion of her sister May. 
 
 "And you planned this all out. You've been plan- 
 ning it all this time, and never let me know!" 
 
 "Yes." The little old woman's eyes sparkled with 
 an excitement almost as great as was the girl's. 
 "Susie Smith's mother came first. She asked did 
 I s'pose you would teach Susie. She did n't like to 
 ask you herself. An* she told me that Nellie wanted to 
 an' Julia Small, also. That gave me the idea. But I 
 said wait. I told 'em ter say nothin' ter no one. An' 
 so we waited. I knew the time would come, just as 
 it has ter-day, when you'd want ter be earnin' some 
 money." 
 
 "Susie Smith, Nellie French, and Julia Small,"
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 FOUNDATIONS 
 
 BY the twentieth of July, when Martin Kent arrived 
 at the Inn, Sister Sue's class was well established; 
 and it was known as " Sister Sue's class," too. Some- 
 times the children forgot and even addressed her as 
 "Miss Sister Sue," much to Sister Sue's amusement 
 and their own blushing confusion. Sister Sue herself 
 should have become accustomed to this title by this 
 time, for so hi the habit was her family of speaking, 
 not only to her, but of her, as "Sister Sue," that 
 others fell naturally into the way of it also. Gilmore- 
 ville had always known her as "Sister Sue," for from 
 babyhood May and Gordon had answered most 
 questions with "I don't know. Sister Sue '11 tell you. 
 She knows." Gilmoreville now, therefore, was taking 
 lessons of, not Miss Susanna Gilmore, but Sister 
 Sue. 
 
 Martin Kent did not like Sister Sue's class in piano- 
 forte playing. He found that out very soon. He had 
 not been there a week before he said so to his fiancee. 
 
 "I don't get a minute, hardly, to see you not a 
 minute, only evenings," he complained. 
 
 "I know it. But, Martin, I have to. Don't you 
 see? And only think of all the money I 'm earning 
 peeling those potatoes." 
 
 "Doing what?" 
 
 Sister Sue laughed and told the story of her inter-
 
 FOUNDATIONS 123 
 
 view with Mrs. Preston a story which Martin Kent 
 chuckled over and thoroughly appreciated. 
 
 "She's a character and no mistake," he nodded. 
 "But I notice it was you who likened your work to 
 peeling potatoes for that banquet." 
 
 "It was. I did." She smiled, but she sighed, too. 
 "And it is peeling potatoes, Martin, and that kitchen 
 is mighty stupid and lonesome when you can't help 
 thinking all the time of the banquet-hall with all its 
 light and laughter and music and excitement! You 
 see, the children Martin, they are awful. Why, 
 they don't know a scale from an octave, some of 
 them ! And it is so hard to hear them singsong their 
 one-two-three, one-two-three, when when oh, I 
 do so want to be carving that turkey!" 
 
 "And that's what you should be doing." 
 
 "Oh, but you forget those foundations," she re- 
 minded him with a shrug. "And, of course, they are 
 necessary; only I I happen to be one that would 
 prefer to build the cupolas." 
 
 "I don't blame you! It's a shame!" he declared. 
 "But you just wait till my book gets to going. We 
 won't be er peeling potatoes then." 
 
 She laughed and colored again. 
 
 " But meanwhile I am earning money," she said. 
 " I want May to go on with her studies. Gordon 
 we 've decided not to try to send him back to his old 
 school. He'll stay and graduate here. Gilmoreville 
 has a very fine High School, I am told. After that, 
 we'll see. I'm hoping for college. But May May 
 must go, that 's all. You know what talent she 's got."
 
 124 SISTER SUE 
 
 "Yes, I know, and I'm going to help her this sum- 
 mer. We were talking this morning while you were 
 laboring with that little Smith girl. May read me 
 that last little story she's written. It's very good." 
 
 " Is it really? Oh, I'm so glad! It seemed good 
 to me." 
 
 "Yes. Oh, it needs pruning and condensing, and 
 she has some bad habits that need correction. And, 
 as I said, I'm going to try to help her this summer. 
 We're planning to have a session every morning 
 on the piazza * First Aid to Short-Story Writing,' 
 while you're teaching." 
 
 "Oh, Martin, how perfectly splendid! That's aw- 
 fully good of you. And it'll help her so much." 
 
 "She seems to think so." 
 
 "Of course it will. I hope she appreciates it. And 
 for you to take your time like that, and for a tyro like 
 May! Oh, well," she smiled whimsically, "you'll 
 be peeling potatoes now, Martin ! " 
 
 Martin Kent shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Perhaps. Still, it is n't proved yet, you know, 
 that I I could carve the turkey if I wanted to. But 
 you just wait till 'Trixie' is out. You wait!" 
 
 "Oh, we're waiting," she retorted a bit saucily. 
 Then, with sweet gravity, she added: "But I do think 
 it's dear of you, Martin, to help May; and I love you 
 for it." 
 
 "I'm glad you love me for something, you little 
 will-o'-the-wisp," he sighed plaintively. "Do you 
 know what's going to happen? Some day I'm going 
 to bunch the whole dozen of those tiresome one-two-
 
 FOUNDATIONS 125 
 
 three-fourers, and dump them into the river. Then 
 while they're scrambling out and drying themselves 
 off, I'll see if / can have you a little while to myself!" 
 
 "But you do have me evenings and Sundays, and 
 some of the time days," she protested with a merry 
 laugh. 
 
 "Oh, yes, some of the time days when you're 
 eating your dinner, for instance." 
 
 "Well, anyhow, they're better dinners than they 
 used to be those you 've tried. Now, are n't they? " 
 she challenged. 
 
 " Do you expect me to say that, and to the former 
 cook? Not much!" he fenced. 
 
 "Well, perhaps it would n't be quite safe," she 
 smiled. "But we do think Delia's a splendid cook. 
 And she's such a comfort in lots of ways! Oh, things 
 are beautifully fixed up now." 
 
 Things did, indeed, seem to be "beautifully fixed 
 up" at the Gilmores' those July days. Delia, in the 
 kitchen, gave them good, nourishing food at a frac- 
 tion of what the inexperienced Sister Sue had been 
 spending for the table. Moreover, the wages she 
 asked were not large. Did she not have much time to 
 give to her mother, and was not little Paul allowed 
 the glorious freedom of that wonderful back yard? 
 
 John Gilmore was better physically than he had 
 been at all since the catastrophe. Mentally he was 
 unchanged. He still found his chief delight in his 
 picture-cutting and his jackstraw-playing, though 
 just now his garden was running a close second in his 
 favor, and he was spending more and more of the
 
 126 SISTER SUE 
 
 long hours digging and weeding and watering, all of 
 which pleased and relieved Sister Sue very much; 
 when he was in the garden she felt that he was safe 
 and happy. More than that, she knew that he was 
 not annoying Martin Kent, or any one else, with his 
 gently insistent questions. 
 
 Gordon was away camping. A school friend (sup- 
 plemented by the mother) had sent him an invita- 
 tion; and Sister Sue, upon investigation, had given 
 cordial consent. 
 
 May was much less fretful these days. With college 
 a possible prospect, her present surroundings seemed 
 more endurable; besides, since Martin Kent had 
 come there was the wonderful inspiration of his en- 
 couraging assistance in her short-story writing. He 
 usually gave up the entire forenoon to her now, 
 greatly to her joy and appreciation. Rainy days they 
 sat behind the screen of vines on the veranda; but on 
 pleasant days they nearly always went up into the 
 grove on the hill back of the house, or over to "Sunset 
 Rock" on Flanders Hill anywhere, so as to get 
 away from the tiresome tum-tum-tum, tum-tum- 
 tum of those lessons through the parlor windows. 
 
 As for Sister Sue herself Sister Sue, too, was 
 happier than she had been since the day her father 
 was brought home unconscious; happier not only be- 
 cause the members of her family were obviously more 
 contented, but happier on her own account. Disa- 
 greeable and tedious though her work was at times, 
 it was yet growing in interest. She found herself 
 eagerly watching for improvement in her young pu-
 
 FOUNDATIONS 187 
 
 pils, and very proud and gratified when she found it. 
 Besides, there were coming to her now regularly three 
 or four older girls from a neighboring town, and Anna- 
 belle Whipple, of Gilmoreville. These girls were more 
 advanced, and two of them had real talent. Sister 
 Sue was finding keen pleasure in the hours spent with 
 them. 
 
 With it all she was very busy. The number of her 
 pupils was increasing rapidly, and she was learning 
 to fit them in, one after another, with no lost time 
 between. The money that came in Sister Sue counted 
 greedily, questioning always, was there going to be 
 enough to send May to her beloved college? She had 
 her fears. And yet Mr. Loring had said that there 
 would be partly enough to live on, anyway, and if 
 they were very economical 
 
 But Sister Sue did not let her mind dwell on this. 
 She would work, and work hard. She would procure 
 all the pupils she could, and there were the schools in 
 the autumn, besides. 
 
 In spite of her increasing number of pupils, Sister 
 Sue always found time to see that her father was 
 contented and well cared for. That he was so well 
 physically made her burdens in this direction much 
 lighter. Now that Martin Kent had come there was 
 a new claimant for her time, one that refused to be de- 
 nied and whom she did not wish to deny. It was very 
 pleasant, after the long day of teaching, to be soothed 
 and comforted and coddled a little, perhaps, until 
 she was rested. It was very delightful to sit on the 
 veranda through the long July twilights and talk, or
 
 128 SISTER SUE 
 
 sit quietly, as the mood willed, with a companion 
 whose sympathy was so nicely attuned that it made 
 no difference which she did. Martin Kent was really 
 a comfort these days. He was tender, tactful, and 
 sympathetic, full of fun and good cheer, with always 
 something interesting to say. It was a particularly 
 restful companionship after a long day of jangling 
 discords and nerve- wearing "No, no, that is not 
 right. It should be, 'One-two-three-four; one- two- 
 three-four; one- two-three-four.' >: 
 
 And there was still her piano. She had a good one 
 now. True, it was a rented instrument, and it was 
 not an expensive one; but it was in good tune and of 
 fairly good tone. At all events, it was much better 
 than the "tinkling cymbal" now remaining closed 
 and silent below the framed coffin-plate in the corner 
 across the room; and it responded with some measure 
 of satisfaction to the mood that was on her. 
 
 And this as well as all the rest helped.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 OLD HOME WEEK 
 
 GILMOREVILLE was to have an Old Home Week, be- 
 ginning the last Monday in August. Mrs. French, 
 the Chairman of the Committee for Making Our 
 Old Home Week a Big Success, called upon Sister 
 Sue early in the month to ask a great favor, as she 
 termed it. 
 
 She said that they were to have an entertainment 
 in a huge tent on the Common the third day for the 
 double object of celebrating Old Home Week and of 
 procuring funds for their new town building so greatly 
 needed. She came to ask if Sister Sue would be so 
 good as to play one of her "prettiest pieces"; and 
 would also the young man at the Inn, Mr. Kent, she 
 believed his name was, read a story. She understood 
 that he wrote them. 
 
 Sister Sue smiled; but she looked over her shoulder 
 a bit furtively to make sure that the young gentle- 
 man at the Inn named Kent was not within hearing 
 distance. Then she asked Mrs. French to tell her a 
 little more about the affair. 
 
 Mrs. French was very glad to do this. She was 
 having really a perfectly awful job, she said, and the 
 next time they wanted a chairman for any of their 
 old committees they might look somewhere else. She 
 should n't take it. That was sure. But she was in it 
 now, and she'd got to go through with it, of course.
 
 130 SISTER SUE 
 
 "But just what is it that you're trying to do?" 
 asked Sister Sue. 
 
 "Well, first, of course, we're trying to make Old 
 Home Week a Big Success. We're trying to get 
 everybody back here. And, really, we have some very 
 celebrated people, you know, who used to live here: 
 Cy Bellows, the ball-player, and Miss Kate Farnum, 
 the novelist, and Viola Sanderson. She sings, you 
 know in Grand Opera, too, I think, in New York, 
 and everywhere. And Mrs. Kendall's boy; you know 
 he's a perfectly wonderful violinist. Well, we've 
 written them to come. And of course we've written 
 all the others, too everybody who used to live here. 
 You folks would have got a letter if you had n't 
 already come here," she beamed. 
 
 "Thank you," smiled Sister Sue, trying to banish 
 from her thoughts the quick vision of her father as he 
 used to be. 
 
 "Then, of course, we had to think how to celebrate, 
 specially Wednesday that's going to be our big 
 day. Some wanted speeches. Some wanted just to 
 feed 'em with banquets. The men wanted to get up 
 a ball-game to amuse 'em; and some of the women 
 thought a sale would be nicest. You see, we wanted 
 to make some money for the new town hall if we 
 could. The young folks, they wanted a dance, of 
 course. You can imagine it was an awful mess. No- 
 body wanted the same thing, and some of us, who 
 were wiser, knew we'd got to be careful what we did 
 have, or else the Kendalls and Whipples and all that 
 set would n't come near it."
 
 OLD HOME WEEK 131 
 
 She paused for breath, and Sister Sue murmured a 
 sympathetic " You must be tired, indeed." 
 
 "I should say I was! Well, we talked it over, and 
 we finally decided. We 'd have a big tent on the Com- 
 mon, and we'd have a banquet at noon. Old Homers 
 the folks from out of town, you know, that used to 
 live here need n't pay anything. The rest of us 
 folks that live here, and just sight-seers from other 
 towns we 'd pay thirty-five cents a head. Some 
 said a quarter; but we're going to give 'em a pretty 
 good feed, and I held out for the thirty-five. In the 
 evening we '11 all have a dance in the same tent, of 
 course. And in the afternoon we '11 have a show and 
 charge admission twenty-five cents. That's when 
 we want you and the young gentleman from the Inn. 
 And we did think maybe of having my Nellie and 
 some of the rest of your music-scholars play. But I 
 don't know as that would be a good idea. Of course, 
 we could n't ask 'em all, and that would make the 
 others mad. So probably that would n't do. Better 
 stick to you and Mr. Kent, and maybe the church 
 choirs to sing." 
 
 Through the window came the sound of Martin 
 Kent's voice on the veranda, and again Sister Sue 
 looked fearfully over her shoulder in his direction. 
 Then she turned toward her visitor. 
 
 "Mrs. French, while you've been talking I've been 
 thinking," she began briskly; "and I've got an idea." 
 
 Mrs. French fell back in her chair. 
 
 "My land, Sister Sue! I beg your pardon, I'm 
 sure, and no offense meant, Miss Miss Gilmore,
 
 132 SISTER SUE 
 
 but we always think of you as Sister Sue," she cor- 
 rected herself a little breathlessly. "But, please, 
 please don't suggest anything else! We've thrashed 
 out everything; and I worked a whole hour last night 
 to get them settled down on this." 
 
 "Oh, but I'm not going to suggest anything else," 
 calmed Sister Sue hurriedly. "It's only a little addi- 
 tion that I want to suggest to your plans. Why, Mrs. 
 French, you've got the chance of a lifetime right in 
 your fingers. Did n't you know that?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" Mrs. French's voice and 
 manner were still doubtful, still a bit aggressive. 
 
 " You want your special Old Home Day to be a big, 
 big success, don't you?" 
 
 "We do." 
 
 "And you want very much to get some money. 
 Isn't that so?" 
 
 "Yes, oh, yes!" spoken with great fervor. 
 
 "Well, then, listen!" Sister Sue was all excitement 
 now. "You can make it the biggest kind of a day this 
 town, or any other town anywhere around here, ever 
 had; and you can get lots of money, besides." 
 
 "My land! How?" 
 
 "Write to your ball-player and opera-singer and 
 novelist and violinist, and tell them that Gilmore- 
 ville wants an Old Home Day that will make the 
 whole State yes, the whole country sit up and 
 take notice; and that you can do it if they will come 
 back home for the day and give to their old home 
 folks a few hours of their time and their talent, and 
 let Gilmoreville show how proud it is of its illustrious
 
 OLD HOME WEEK 133 
 
 sons and daughters, and let the outside world realize 
 what it owes to Gilmoreville." 
 
 "My, don't that sound just grand!" breathed Mrs. 
 French. 
 
 "Then tell them what you want. Tell them you 
 are going to have a big tent, and you want Viola 
 Sanderson to sing, and Miss Farnum to read one of 
 her stories, and Mr. Kendall to play his violin. And 
 tell the ball-player that you are going to have a ball- 
 game, and if he will only come and pitch for you 
 the town of Gilmoreville won't be able to hold the 
 multitudes that will pour in from the whole country 
 around." 
 
 "My land's sake!" ejaculated Mrs. French, her 
 eyes almost popping from her head. 
 
 "Now is where the money comes in," went on Sis- 
 ter Sue, showing scarcely less excitement. "With Cy 
 Bellows for your ball-game, and with Viola Sander- 
 son, Kate Farnum, and Donald Kendall for your en- 
 tertainment, you can charge any old price you want, 
 and they '11 pay it and be glad to. And they '11 come 
 from miles and miles around, for of course you'll ad- 
 vertise it. With such drawing cards as you've got, 
 you won't have to worry about anything except how 
 you're going to take care of the crowds when they 
 get here." 
 
 Mrs. French drew a long breath of ecstasy. 
 
 "My! But will they do it Mr. Kendall, and 
 them others? Will they come and play and sing and 
 read, and all that? Of course we could pay 'em." 
 
 Sister Sue smiled. Her lips twitched.
 
 134 SISTER SUE 
 
 "I doubt it and you would if you knew the 
 prices they're in the habit of receiving. But I think 
 they'll come if possible. I'm sure they will if you 
 put it up to them right appeal to their patriotism 
 and their love for the old home town that gave them 
 birth. Tell them how proud Gilmoreville is of them. 
 And don't deceive them. Let them know what their 
 presence is going to mean from a money point of 
 view. Tell them frankly that, in addition to all the 
 sentiment and glory of the occasion, they can, by 
 coming, do a real and lasting service to the old home 
 town by enabling you to raise the money for the much- 
 needed town building." 
 
 "Oh, my, if we only could ! " breathed Mrs. French. 
 
 "But you can! I'm sure you can!" 
 
 " We could n't. We'd never be able to write 'em 
 so they'd come. Oh, Miss Miss Gilmore, you do it, 
 please do it. You will write 'em, won't you? Honestly, 
 we 'd make an awful mess of it if we tried to. You will 
 do it?" she pleaded. 
 
 "Why, y-yes, I'll do it," promised Sister Sue, after 
 a moment's hesitation. "But we must do it right away, 
 at once. We have n't quite three weeks as it is. You '11 
 have to get the names and addresses for me." 
 
 "I will. I'll go straight now and get them!" cried 
 Mrs. French, springing to her feet. "And I'll send 
 Nellie right back with them, so you can write to- 
 night. And, oh " she turned when almost at the 
 door "of course you'll play, too, and and the 
 young gentleman at the Inn will read?" The intona- 
 tion of her voice made it a question.
 
 OLD HOME WEEK 135 
 
 Sister Sue shook her head. 
 
 "You wouldn't want Mr. Kent, anyway; he 
 was n't born in Gilmoreville. I was, I know, but I 
 I 'm not a celebrity. I 'm only the music-teacher 
 that teaches the children down at the village. That 
 would look pretty on your programme with Viola 
 Sanderson and Donald Kendall, would n't it? And 
 when people asked, ' Who 's that? ' and you had to tell 
 them the truth! Nonsense! Of course I shan't play." 
 Her voice was not quite steady, but she laughed 
 lightly, and her eyes were very bright as Mrs. French 
 held out her hand in good-bye. 
 
 "But you'll write those letters! You'll do that 
 part!" cried Mrs. French. "And, oh, thank you so 
 much, Sister Sue, for giving us such a splendid idea. 
 You wait till I tell the rest!" And she hurried away 
 without even a suggestion of an apology for that 
 "Sister Sue." 
 
 But the Chairman of the Committee for Making 
 Our Old Home Week a Big Success did not know that 
 she had said "Sister Sue." For that matter, neither 
 did Sister Sue herself know it. Sister Sue, once alone, 
 had gone straight to the piano. The next minute runs 
 and trills and crashing chords told (had one but 
 known) that Sister Sue was trying to fill her ears 
 with something other than certain clamorous calls of 
 "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! Encore!" 
 
 Sister Sue went out on to the veranda then and 
 sat with May and Martin Kent till Nellie French 
 appeared with the promised names and addresses; 
 then she excused herself and went to her room to
 
 136 SISTER SUE 
 
 write the letters upon which hung so many hopes. 
 With all the skill and tact and persuasion at her com- 
 mand, she made known what those hopes were; and 
 begged for an early reply. 
 
 The letters finished, she took them downstairs to 
 the veranda where Martin Kent was waiting to mail 
 them for her. 
 
 "Well, it did n't take you long!" exclaimed May. 
 
 "Oh, they were short and sweet and straight to the 
 point," laughed Sister Sue, "and of course they were 
 all pretty nearly alike. But they're gems of the first 
 water, I can assure you. Listen!" And in the light 
 that came through the living-room window she took 
 one of the letters from its envelope and read it aloud. 
 
 "Bravo!" applauded Martin Kent. "That would 
 move the heart of a stone." 
 
 "Perhaps. But that's not saying they'll move the 
 hearts of those celebrated pets of fortune," shrugged 
 Sister Sue. 
 
 "Only think of having Cy Bellows and Donald 
 Kendall right here in town with us!" gurgled May. 
 
 "Donald Kendall would be flattered that you in- 
 cluded him with Cy Bellows, I am sure," observed 
 Martin Kent dryly. 
 
 May sniffed her disdain. 
 
 "If Donald Kendall is anything like what he used 
 to be, you couldn't flatter him!" she declared. "Of 
 all the conceited creatures! And domineering! You 
 could n't say your soul was your own in his presence 
 and be sure to get away with it, even then." 
 
 "When was that?" *
 
 OLD HOME WEEK 137 
 
 "Eight or ten years ago. Oh, he could play then. 
 He was wonderful." 
 
 "How old was he?" 
 
 "Eighteen. I was eight and Sister Sue ten; and we 
 were his abject slaves, when he 'd let us be. Most of 
 the time, though, he just tormented us. He was an 
 awful tease. But it will be exciting to see him again, 
 though. And he's so wonderfully famous now!" 
 
 " I want to hear him play," said Sister Sue dreamily. 
 "Young as I was, I'd sit by the hour then and listen 
 to him if he'd let me. But he would n't let me very 
 often. He preferred to make hideous noises, and 
 scrape the bow across the strings in weird shrieks and 
 groans and cat-calls that sent us flying with our hands 
 to our ears." 
 
 "Well, he can play now all right." Martin Kent's 
 lips came together a bit grimly. 
 
 "You've heard him, I think you said." 
 
 " In New York a year ago yes. He 's wonderful." 
 
 "What does he look like?" This from May. 
 
 "Very much like a man who could be just such a 
 boy as you describe," laughed Martin Kent. "He's 
 tall, dark, rather piercing black eyes, a mouth not too 
 accustomed to smiling, and a temper and a disposi- 
 tion that showed up very plainly, even that night, 
 right there." 
 
 "You don't mean during the concert!" Sister Sue's 
 eyes were incredulous. 
 
 "Yes. On the stage. He had an encore, and came 
 out to respond. His accompanist came out, too, and 
 was just arranging the music on the rack at the piano,
 
 138 SISTER SUE 
 
 when Kendall wheeled, walked over to the piano, said 
 a sharp word or two, then came back to the front of 
 the stage and waited till the pianist, very red of face, 
 got up from the piano and disappeared. When every- 
 thing was quiet, Kendall raised his violin and played 
 two or three old airs entirely unaccompanied. I 
 heard afterwards what happened. He was n't suited 
 with his accompanist. Even I noticed that he turned 
 to him once or twice, during the playing, as if greatly 
 annoyed. When it came to the encore something 
 that had been previously provided for he walked 
 over and told the young fellow his services would not 
 be required." 
 
 "How nice!" tittered May. 
 
 " That poor accompanist ! " frowned Sister Sue. "But 
 I can imagine Donald Kendall's doing just that." 
 
 "I wonder if he'll come." May's voice was half 
 fearful, half longing. 
 
 "I wonder if any of them will come," sighed Sister 
 Sue, balancing the letters in her hand. "I'm begin- 
 ning to get scared, now that the deed is done." 
 
 "Oh, it is n't quite done," Martin Kent reminded 
 her. "The letters are n't mailed yet." 
 
 "No, but they will be to-night, for I shall give 
 them to you when you go, of course. I'm not going 
 to stop now, you may be sure, after all this!" 
 
 "If the rest of the celebrities are as sweet-tem- 
 pered as Donald Kendall, we'll have some excite- 
 ment, anyhow," commented May. "Really, I'm get- 
 ting quite worked-up over this Old Home Day," 
 she laughed as she got to her feet. "And now I'll
 
 OLD HOME WEEK 139 
 
 leave you and let you two visit together. Poor Mar- 
 tin! He has n't had you a minute to-day. I'd rebel 
 if I were in his place," she tossed over her shoulder 
 as she disappeared through the doorway. 
 
 Martin Kent posted the letters that night. Then 
 came the days of waiting for the answers. The whole 
 town was on the qui vive. Even Sister May Superior 
 (as Martin Kent sometimes called May Gilmore) 
 asked every day if Sister Sue had heard anything; 
 and Martin himself was not far behind her. 
 
 Mrs. French telephoned daily. Nor was she the 
 only one. Sister Sue, indeed, for the first time since 
 installing the instrument almost wished for the old 
 telephoneless days, so constantly was she summoned 
 to answer the query: "Have you heard anything 
 yet, Miss Sister Sue? " 
 
 After all, they had not very long to wait. The 
 first reply came from Donald Kendall, and it came 
 through his mother. 
 
 Mrs. Kendall walked over to the house one after- 
 noon at about five o'clock. Mrs. Kendall did not 
 often come to the Gilmores'. She had called once, and 
 Sister Sue had properly returned the visit. Since 
 then she had not come to the house except to take 
 them for a ride or two in the motor car. May was 
 wont to say that Mrs. Kendall had "duty" written 
 large all over her when she noticed them in any way. 
 May declared that her very air said: "Whereas these 
 persons were rich, but are now poor, it is my duty to 
 show them that it makes no difference in my treat- 
 ment of them, no difference whatever."
 
 140 SISTER SUE 
 
 "And when she used to just toady to us, and be 
 so pleased if we'd even notice her!" May would fin- 
 ish wrathfully. 
 
 To-day Mrs. Kendall was coldly gracious, with a 
 tinge of patronage in her manner as Sister Sue greeted 
 her. 
 
 "My son writes me that he has received a letter 
 from a Susanna Gilmore requesting him to play at the 
 Gilmoreville Old Home Day," she began with a faint 
 smile. 
 
 "Yes, I wrote him in behalf of the Committee." 
 Sister Sue also spoke with a faint smile. 
 
 Mrs. Kendall stirred in her chair. 
 
 "But I wonder if you I mean if the Committee 
 understands what what my son usually receives 
 for a single appearance at a concert." 
 
 "Perhaps not until I told them," returned Sister 
 Sue imperturbably, still with the little quiet smile on 
 her lips. "We understand, of course, that it would be 
 impossible for Mr. Kendall to acquire any financial 
 benefit from an appearance in Gilmoreville. But 
 we were venturesome enough to hope that he still 
 might like to come." 
 
 "He will come." Mrs. Kendall bowed graciously. 
 Plainly she had been only trying to make Gilmore- 
 ville realize the magnitude of the favor being done 
 them. " He says he will be very glad to come. He will 
 play two numbers, and he will bring his own accom- 
 panist." (Mrs. Kendall wondered a little at the sud- 
 den broad smile that came to Miss Sue Gilmore's 
 face, but she went on with what she had to say.) "My
 
 OLD HOME WEEK 141 
 
 son asks me to tell you that he is coming. So if you 
 will consider this an official notice, please." 
 
 "Thank you. I shall be glad to pass on the in- 
 formation," bowed Sister Sue. "The Committee will 
 be gratified, I am sure." 
 
 "He may come a day or two early. He was plan- 
 ning to make me a visit at about this time, anyway." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 For a few minutes longer Mrs. Kendall chatted of 
 one thing and another, but she spoke no more of her 
 son. She asked Sister Sue how she enjoyed teaching, 
 and if she did not find that it tried her so confin- 
 ing, and in warm weather, too ! It was such a pity that 
 she had to do it. She inquired for the health of the 
 family, mentioning in particular poor dear Mr. Gil- 
 more. Then, a little later, she took her very gracious 
 leave. 
 
 Sister Sue went to the piano and played for quite 
 ten minutes; then very quietly she went out to the 
 veranda and told May that Donald Kendall was 
 coming. She gave the same piece of information to 
 Mrs. French over the telephone. After that it was 
 not necessary to tell any one; though she still had to 
 say, " Yes, it is fine that he is coming, is n't it? " to no 
 less than five others who called her up before the next 
 morning. 
 
 A day later came a letter from Kate Farnum's 
 secretary saying that Miss Farnum would be pleased 
 to come to Gilmoreville as requested, and would be 
 willing to donate her services to the extent of a thirty- 
 minute reading from her latest novel, provided that
 
 142 SISTER SUE 
 
 the management would agree that the doors of the as- 
 sembly room should be closed during the reading and 
 no one admitted for that period of thirty minutes. 
 
 Close upon the heels of this epistle came a letter 
 from Viola Sanderson, written in her own sprawling 
 hand. She said that she thought it was perfectly 
 lovely for Gilmoreville to plan such a delightful re- 
 union of all the old home folks, and she was anticipat- 
 ing the occasion very much and would n't miss it for 
 the world. Then she signed the name known from 
 one end of the continent to the other (to say nothing 
 of Paris, London, and Berlin) as that of the greatest 
 coloratura soprano of the day. 
 
 As if in afterthought came the P.S. : 
 
 "Sing? Bless your heart, of course I'll sing for 
 you all you want me to!" 
 
 "And she's the biggest, the very biggest of the 
 whole bunch!" cried May, when Sister Sue, as usual, 
 had read the letter to her and Martin Kent on the 
 veranda. "And yet look how little she makes of what 
 she is doing for us ! " 
 
 "Quite apt to be the way, from my experience," 
 commented Martin Kent, reaching for the letter and 
 critically examining the handwriting. "The bigger 
 they are, the more simple and unassuming. And the 
 lady writes the whole letter herself, if you please, in 
 her own hand. That's some letter for an autograph 
 collector, Sue!" 
 
 "Well, an autograph collector is n't going to get 
 it." And Sister Sue reached for the letter as if al- 
 ready fearful of its escape.
 
 OLD HOME WEEK 143 
 
 "And look at Kate Farnum, with her stiff little 
 note from her secretary!" scoffed May; "laying down 
 the law about doors being shut and no admissions 
 during the reading. As if anybody cared whether 
 they heard her little two-for-a-cent novel, or not!" 
 
 "Jealousy professional jealousy!" gibed Martin 
 Kent with merry eyes. 
 
 May shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Sister Sue, it is so, what I said, is n't it?" she 
 appealed. 
 
 But Sister Sue turned away with a laugh. 
 
 "Settle your own disputes," she said. "I've got to 
 go and tell Mrs. French the latest. How pleased they 
 will be!" 
 
 "You have n't heard from Cy Bellows yet?" 
 called out May. 
 
 "No, but you will," declared Martin Kent without 
 hesitation. 
 
 And Martin Kent was right. Before night there 
 came a telegram reading: 
 
 Great ! Sure I 'II come. 
 
 Cy Bellows. 
 
 "And now we've heard from them all, and they're 
 all coming," triumphed Sister Sue. "Why, May, I'm 
 getting to be real excited myself; I really am." 
 
 But she had to draw the line that evening when 
 Mrs. French, red-faced and flustered, ran over to 
 "talk things up." 
 
 "And, oh, ain't it splendid and perfectly wonder- 
 ful?" breathed Mrs. French, dropping herself into a
 
 144 SISTER SUE 
 
 chair. "Only think of having Viola Sanderson and 
 Mr. Kendall and on our programme ! Why, they 
 say she has sung before Kings and Queens and Prin- 
 cesses, and the idea of her singing for us, right here in 
 Gilmoreville ! And it 's all owin' to you every bit 
 of it. We would n't have had anybody but you an' 
 Mr. oh, Miss Sister Sue," she broke off, growing 
 even more red of face, "I beg your pardon! Excuse 
 me ! That was awful ! I I did n't mean it to 
 sound like that. Of course we wanted you that is, 
 we'd be glad now to have " 
 
 But Sister Sue interrupted her with a quickly up- 
 raised hand. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know; I understand," she nodded with 
 a smile. "But never mind about that. Just think of 
 what we 're going to have now. Besides, the work has 
 just begun, the real work." 
 
 "Yes, of course, I suppose it has," sighed Mrs. 
 French, settling back in her chair. "Well, what 
 shall we do first?" 
 
 "I can't do anything. I have n't the time, really, 
 Mrs. French." 
 
 "But, Sister Sue, you'll advise us!" cried Mrs. 
 French, sitting up, aghast. "I mean, Miss Miss 
 Gilmore," she stammered. 
 
 "Let it go at 'Sister Sue.' That's what I am." 
 There was an odd something in the girl's voice that 
 vaguely disturbed Mrs. French. But instantly she 
 forgot it under the sway of the brisk cheeriness of 
 Sister Sue's next sentence. "Advice? Oh, yes, I'll 
 give you lots of advice, if you want it," she was say-
 
 OLD HOME WEEK 145 
 
 ing. "And I can put it in just one word: Advertise. 
 Advertise everywhere town, county, the whole 
 State. Tell everybody what you are going to have 
 here on that last Wednesday in August. Then get 
 busy, all of you, to prepare for the crowd that will 
 surely come." 
 
 ** We will, we will ! " exclaimed Mrs. French eagerly. 
 "And folks are interested already. The Kendalls, 
 and Whipples, and Grays, and all that set they 're 
 coming, and the Kendalls are going to have folks 
 from Boston and New York a house-party. And 
 Mrs. Sargent telephoned yesterday to know if we 
 were going to have boxes in the tent; and if we were, 
 she wanted us to reserve the best one for her. She 
 wanted to give a box-party, she said. Oh, I think it's 
 wonderful, perfectly wonderful! And we owe every 
 bit of it to you!" 
 
 "Then pay me back by making the whole thing one 
 big glorious success," smiled Sister Sue as she bowed 
 her visitor out. 
 
 And when Mrs. French had gone, once more to the 
 piano went Sister Sue to fill her ears with something 
 other than that clamorous "Encore! Encore! Su- 
 sanna Gilmore! Encore!" 
 
 For the next two weeks little was done or thought 
 of in Gilmoreville but what had to do with Old Home 
 Week. Even the children, whose lips still droned 
 one-two-three, one-two-three, at Sister Sue's piano, 
 showed so plainly where their minds were, that their 
 much-tried music-teacher sometimes declared to her 
 family that she might as well have given up her
 
 146 SISTER SUE 
 
 entire time to the project, for all the good her lessons 
 were doing. Even as it was, her telephone was kept 
 not a little busy by Mrs. French's excited voice an- 
 nouncing as a preface to an always lengthy talk: 
 
 "Well, I want to tell you what we're doing now /" 
 
 Sister Sue knew, therefore, the most of what was 
 being done. 
 
 It was arranged that Miss Kate Farnum should 
 stay at the Inn. Nobody seemed anxious to under- 
 take her entertainment after being shown the secre- 
 tary's letter. Mr. Donald Kendall, of course, would 
 stay at his mother's. At least five homes had been 
 thrown wide open to Cy Bellows, with their owners 
 begging for the privilege of entertaining him. After 
 anxious deliberation the Committee chose the first 
 one offered as the safest way out of that dilemma. 
 
 There remained, then, only Miss Viola Sanderson. 
 Here there entered complications. Mrs. Jane Jones, 
 an aunt of the singer, lived in a little white house on 
 a side street, and she notified the Chairman of the 
 Committee for Making Our Old Home Week a Big 
 Success that she would be very glad to entertain her 
 niece. This created some little consternation of itself, 
 for the small white house on the side street was very 
 plain and unpretentious, and its mistress, though a 
 very sweet and estimable little old lady, was even 
 more simple and unpretentious than the house; and 
 the Committee for Making Our Old Home Week 
 a Big Success were appalled at the thought of con- 
 ducting the great Viola Sanderson to what they scorn- 
 fully termed "that little snippy place."
 
 OLD HOME WEEK 147 
 
 "Yet, of course, Mis' Jones is a relative, her own 
 mother's sister," moaned Mrs. French worriedly. 
 "There's no getting away from that!" 
 
 At this point, to complicate matters still further, 
 came the note from Mrs. Whipple, graciously offering 
 the hospitality of her home for the entertainment of 
 their expected guest Miss Viola Sanderson. 
 
 "And there the Whipples have got the very swell- 
 est-looking house in town, with that porte-cochere, and 
 all," wailed one of the Committee when the letter was 
 read. "We'd love to take her there. Besides, if we 
 don't, what can we say to Mrs. Wliipple? She'll get 
 mad then, and we can't afford that. She's going to 
 take ten tickets. She said she would. But if we don't 
 let her have Miss Sanderson, after all her kind offer, 
 she won't take one, maybe." 
 
 In this dilemma, as in many others, Mrs. French 
 finally appealed to Sister Sue. 
 
 "Now what shall we do?" she demanded, when 
 she had laid the case before her over the telephone. 
 "What can we do?" 
 
 "Leave it to Miss Sanderson herself," answered 
 Sister Sue promptly. 
 
 "To Miss Sanderson?" 
 
 "Of course. You'll have to. There's nothing else 
 you can do that I can see," persisted Sister Sue. 
 "You want her to go to Mrs. WTiipple's, I judge, from 
 what you say." 
 
 "Well, I guess we do! The idea of Viola Sanderson 
 going to Jane Jones's to stay!" 
 
 "But Mrs. Jones can't be ignored, just the same,"
 
 148 SISTER SUE 
 
 Sister Sue reminded her. "She is her aunt, you know. 
 It would n't be fair to her, or even to Miss Sanderson 
 herself, not to give her her aunt's invitation. At the 
 same time you can tell her of the other. Then let her 
 choose." 
 
 "All right," came the voice of Mrs. French doubt- 
 fully over the wire. " If you really think we ought to." 
 
 "I certainly do," declared Sister Sue as she hung up 
 the receiver. 
 
 Arrangements for the ball-game were coming on 
 apace. Sister Sue was not consulted about this, but 
 she was told all about it. The players were all home- 
 town young men, and were practicing every afternoon 
 on the Common. The bank boys and retail clerks 
 were going to play against a nine picked from the 
 Kendall and Whipple shops. Before the Great Day 
 they were to draw lots to see who should have Cy 
 Bellows for pitcher. It was a foregone conclusion, 
 of course, that the side which won Cy Bellows would 
 win the game; though each team valiantly declared 
 that they 'd give the other a fight for it, anyhow, even 
 if they did have Cy Bellows for pitcher! 
 
 The fame of the game, as well as of the concert, was 
 already spread abroad, for both had been advertised 
 far and near. And already from remote corners of the 
 State had come news of intending visitors. 
 
 Little wonder that Gilmoreville was on the qm 
 vive, and that Sister Sue's small pupils droned out 
 their one-two-three, one-two-three, with minds miles 
 away from their fingers.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 DONALD KENDALL 
 
 IT was on the last Saturday afternoon before Old 
 Home Week that May rushed into the living-rooni 
 where Sister Sue was awaiting a belated pupil. 
 
 "He's come!" she announced breathlessly. 
 
 "Well, I should think that it was time," answered 
 the somewhat annoyed music- teacher. "But why, 
 pray, all this excitement on your part? You're not 
 usually so interested in my pupils. Where is he? Why 
 does n't he come in? Well, what 's the matter now? " 
 she demanded with still more irritation as May began 
 to giggle hysterically. 
 
 "It's Donald Kendall that's come not your 
 precious Jimmy Sargent," chattered May. " I just 
 saw him." 
 
 "Oh! Well." Sister Sue was still frowning, though 
 her eyes began to show a decided interest. 
 
 "I saw him get out of the motor at their door. I 
 know it was he. He was tall and dark, just as Mar- 
 tin said ; and he had a violin. Behind him came a little 
 man with a big music portfolio under his arm. Then 
 the chauffeur carried in two enormous suitcases and a 
 hatbox. Oh, Sue, I 'm crazy to see him ! near to, I 
 mean. Are n't you?" 
 
 "I'm crazy to hear him' play," emphasized Sister 
 Sue severely; "and oh, there's Jimmy, at last," she 
 broke off, hurrying from the room.
 
 150 SISTER SUE 
 
 The whole town knew before the day was over that 
 Donald Kendall had arrived; and before twenty -four 
 hours had passed, many who (like May) had longed to 
 see him "near to," found their longing satisfied. For 
 Donald Kendall went to church in the morning and 
 sat in the Kendall pew. He seemed oblivious of the 
 many curious glances cast in his direction; and his air, 
 as he walked down the aisle upon leaving the church, 
 did not invite approach, though he was civil enough 
 to the few braver spirits who dared to speak to him. 
 
 In the afternoon he and his accompanist went to 
 walk on the hill back of the house; and in the early 
 evening May saw the big touring car come around to 
 the door and take them all away for a ride. 
 
 Not until Monday morning did there come the 
 sound of the violin; then, at almost the first note, 
 Sister Sue and May ran to the corner of the vine- 
 shaded veranda nearest the Kendall house. 
 
 "Hush! Listen! He's playing the Tschaikowsky 
 concerto," whispered Sister Sue excitedly. Then, 
 after a minute: "Oh, May, he can play!" Then, 
 after another five minutes of ecstatic listening: "And 
 I've got to leave it! There's Susie the little 
 wretch ! To think of having to hear her jangling with 
 the memory of this in my ears!" 
 
 "I wonder if he remembers us," murmured May, 
 trying to peer through the thick screen of leaves. 
 "Sue, do you suppose we'll have to be introduced? 
 I shan't. I'm going to go right up and speak to him 
 when it 's over. Shan't you?" 
 
 But Sister Sue had gone. And in a moment from
 
 DONALD KENDALL 151 
 
 the piano in the house came the familiar one-two- 
 three, one-two-three, one-two-three. 
 
 With a vexed gesture May ran to shut the door 
 and the window ; then she came back to her corner 
 on the veranda. 
 
 She was there when the messenger boy on the bi- 
 cycle dashed up the Kendall driveway, and she was 
 still there through all the subsequent confusion; so 
 that when Sister Sue came out on to the veranda for a 
 breath of air between pupils, May was able to give her 
 a full account of what had occurred. 
 
 "Something has happened, Sue!" she cried, fairly 
 quivering with excitement. "First, Johnny Baxter 
 came on his wheel with a telegram, and a minute 
 later the music stopped right off short, and I could 
 hear voices, away here quick, excited voices as if 
 something was wrong. Then it seems as though it 
 was n't more than five minutes before the chauffeur 
 had the car at the door and the little man the 
 accompanist, you know came running down the 
 steps with a suitcase and jumped into the car. Be- 
 hind him Mr. Kendall was hurrying just as fast, 
 only he did n't get into the car. He had his watch 
 out and I heard him call: 'You'll make it! You've 
 got ten minutes! Don't worry!' Then I knew he 
 meant the train for New York, of course. And the car 
 dashed off and Mr. Kendall went back into the house. 
 In a minute I heard the violin ; but it was n't at all as 
 he played it before. It sounded, for all the world, like 
 your piano when you are all worked up over some- 
 thing, only much worse."
 
 152 SISTER SUE 
 
 "I can imagine it," nodded Sister Sue. 
 
 "It shrieked and groaned and fairly sent the shivers 
 down my back; then he played the most wonderful 
 double-stopping I ever, ever heard. The next minute 
 the music stopped right off short again, and a moment 
 later his majesty appeared on the piazza and began to 
 walk up and down, up and down, like a wild thing. 
 Twice his mother came out and said something, but 
 he just waved her away as if she had been a fly that 
 bothered; and by and by he went into the house, and 
 I heard the violin again, only worse than before. I 
 tell you, Sue, the piano is n't in it with the violin 
 when it comes right down to expressing your opinion 
 of matters and things without reserve! But what do 
 you suppose it all means?" 
 
 "I can't imagine, except, of course, that the accom- 
 panist has gone. That 's plain to be seen. And maybe 
 he can't get back for the concert. But, anyway, we'll 
 know later, probably," she called back as she went to 
 meet her next pupil coming up the steps. 
 
 And they did know. At noon Sister Sue was sum- 
 moned to the telephone. When she came back to the 
 table there was an odd smile on her face. 
 
 "Well, May, you'll have your wish. You will have 
 an opportunity of seeing Donald Kendall real near 
 to, this evening, if you like. He's coming over here." 
 
 "Here to-night? Honestly?" May was guilty 
 of trying to talk with her mouth full. 
 
 "Yes, at eight o'clock." 
 
 " To see us ? " May spoke more distinctly now. "To 
 to call, you mean?"
 
 DONALD KENDALL 153 
 
 "To practice if he'll let me." Sister Sue's face 
 was expressive. 
 
 "You don't mean his violin!" 
 
 "Yes. His mother told me that she had persuaded 
 him to let me try his accompaniments for Wednesday, 
 and that he would be over at once." 
 
 "Now ! " May's hands flew to her hair and the neck 
 of her dress. "But I thought you said to-night!" 
 
 "I did. It was she who said 'now.'" Sister Sue's 
 face was still expressive of that curious something. 
 "And she did n't even ask me, either. She said he 
 was coming." 
 
 "And you dared to put Donald Kendall off till 
 to-night?" gasped May. 
 
 "Certainly. I told Mrs. Kendall that I couldn't 
 see her son this afternoon. I had pupils." 
 
 "Pupils! when Donald Kendall wanted you to 
 play for him!" gasped May again. "Sister Sue, how 
 could you?" 
 
 "But I had to." Sister Sue's voice was spirited, 
 her eyes flashed a little. "Donald Kendall is not my 
 bread-and-butter, and my pupils are. Besides, I was 
 really rather glad that I could n't be ready just the 
 minute his lordship demanded. As I said, Mrs. 
 Kendall did n't ask if he might come, or if I 'd be will- 
 ing to play for him. She said she had persuaded him 
 to let me try, and he was coming right over." 
 
 "Then his accompanist has gone." 
 
 "Yes. His father is very ill dying, the tele- 
 gram said. I guess they think there's no chance of 
 his getting back in time. So they had to take me."
 
 154 SISTER SUE 
 
 "Had to take you, indeed! As if they weren't 
 the luckiest things in the world to get you!" cried 
 May. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," shrugged Sister Sue. "I fancy 
 Donald Kendall does n't think so." 
 
 And Donald Kendall did not think so. Just how 
 strongly Donald Kendall was of this opinion it was 
 perhaps quite as well that Sister Sue did not know. 
 It was just as well, too, perhaps, that she did not know 
 exactly what had taken place before his mother's 
 telephone message, otherwise there might have been 
 a still longer wait before she was ready to receive Mr. 
 Donald Kendall. 
 
 What had occurred was this: 
 
 "But what are you going to do, dear?" Mrs. Ken- 
 dall had asked her son when he was calm enough to 
 do something besides wave her away irritably. He 
 had laid down his violin and thrown himself dejectedly 
 into a chair. Twice before, on the veranda, she had 
 spoken to him; but he would not even listen. He had 
 come into the house then, and had played furiously 
 on his violin until exhausted. "What are you going 
 to do?" she repeated. 
 
 "I shall play without accompaniment." 
 
 "Donald, you never would!" 
 
 "But I shall." 
 
 "But, Donald, it won't sound half so good." She 
 was almost crying. "I noticed this morning how the 
 piano filled in and rounded the whole thing out, and 
 made the violin part wonderful. I don't see how 
 you can play it without the piano."
 
 DONALD KENDALL 155 
 
 "Oh, I shan't play that concerto, of course. I shall 
 play something else." 
 
 "You mean ! Donald, you wouldn't get up 
 there and play some snippy little no-account thing 
 that day I" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. "There are melodies," 
 he began; but she interrupted him. 
 
 "Now, Donald, you are not going to get up there 
 and play any old 'Home, Sweet Home/ or 'Last 
 Rose of Summer.' That might do in New York and 
 places where they'd understand the fine artistry of 
 your performance but not here. They '11 have to 
 have noise and show and fireworks here!" 
 
 "But, mother, as if I cared " began the man, 
 again with a shrug. 
 
 "Then care for me!" interrupted his mother tragi- 
 cally. "You are in your own home town the 
 town I have to live in, remember. Men, women, and 
 children will be here who never heard you before, 
 and who will never hear you again. Call it silly, fool- 
 ish, false pride, if you will. I don't care. I want these 
 people to think you are the wonder you really are 
 but they never will in the world if you get up there 
 and play some little old tune they know by heart 
 already." 
 
 "But, mother, will you kindly tell me what I can 
 do?" demanded the violinist irritably. 
 
 "Play what you were going to, with piano accom- 
 paniment." 
 
 "But, good Heavens! with whom? Dodge can't 
 possibly get back, and you know it."
 
 156 SISTER SUE 
 
 "Get some one here." 
 
 "Here! in this town! To play the Tschaikow- 
 sky concerto for me ! " 
 
 " Certainly." Mrs. Kendall still held her ground in 
 spite of the horror in her son's face. "I think Sister 
 Sue could do it." 
 
 "And pray who may Sister Sue be? I did n't know 
 that Gilmoreville sported a a nunnery." 
 
 "Nonsense, don't be silly, Donald. It's Sue Gil- 
 more, the little girl next door you used to play with 
 years ago. Even then they used to call her Sister Sue. 
 Don't you remember? Always, to any questions you 
 asked of any of the family there was only one answer : 
 'Sister Sue will know'; 'Sister Sue will do it." : 
 
 "Indeed! And so you think this all-powerful, all- 
 knowing Sister Sue can play the Tschaikowsky con- 
 certo for me Wednesday afternoon, do you?" 
 
 "She can try" 
 
 "Thanks. I've had aspiring pianists try before. 
 It was not a pleasant experience. I really should not 
 care to repeat it." 
 
 "But, Donald; indeed, she plays very nicely, and 
 she has been teaching all summer." 
 
 "The village children?" 
 
 "Yes; and four from the Junction, too." 
 
 "I know. 'The Maiden's Prayer,' and, 'Listen to 
 the Mocking Bird with Variations.' I recognize the 
 type." 
 
 "But, Donald, you could try her. It would n't do 
 any harm to let her try. There's time enough. Please, 
 please let me go and tell her you'll be over this after-
 
 DONALD KENDALL 157 
 
 noon with the music. And, Donald, have n't you 
 got something easier, that's still showy and fine- 
 sounding, something she could do, if she can't do the 
 concerto? You can try her on the concerto, first, of 
 course." 
 
 It was after ten minutes more of such pleading 
 that Donald Kendall (chiefly to avoid hearing it any 
 longer) consented that his mother should telephone 
 to Sister Sue next door. Two minutes later Mrs. Ken- 
 dall came back from the instrument, her face flooded 
 with anger. 
 
 "Well, you've had your way," began her son dis- 
 contentedly, without looking up, "and I suppose I'm 
 in for it after luncheon. What time do I go?" 
 
 "Not till evening eight o'clock." Mrs. Ken- 
 dall's voice shook. "The little wretch had the im- 
 pertinence to say that she could n't attend to it this 
 afternoon. Pupils. The idea! and the honor you 
 were doing her!" 
 
 An odd expression came to Donald Kendall's 
 face. He stared, frowned, then shrugged his shoulders- 
 again. The next minute he had turned away with- 
 out a word. 
 
 It was just eight o'clock when Donald Kendall 
 rang the Gilmores' front-door bell. He carried a vio- 
 lin in its case and a portfolio of music. 
 
 May advanced at once from the shadow of the 
 vines. 
 
 "Good-evening, Mr. Kendall!" she greeted him 
 blithely. "Won't you come in and sit down, please? 
 I will tell Sister Sue you are here. I am May. You
 
 158 SISTER SUE 
 
 don't remember, probably, but we remember you 
 very well." 
 
 "Yes, we remember you very well," echoed a new 
 voice as Sister Sue herself appeared in the doorway. 
 "Won't you come in, Mr. Kendall?" 
 
 "Er thank you, yes." Donald Kendall's lips 
 smiled, but his eyes were somber, and there was a 
 frown between the heavy black brows. "My mother 
 said perhaps you 'd be willing to try that is that 
 perhaps you could play my accompaniments for me 
 Wednesday." 
 
 "I shall be glad to. Won't you be seated, please?" 
 
 They were in the stiff parlor room with the hair- 
 wreath and the coffin-plates staring down at them. 
 Donald Kendall put down his violin and his music; 
 and May began to talk brightly archly asking him 
 how it felt to be so famous and to come to his old 
 home town like this, and did he remember what a 
 wretch he used to be and how he tormented the lives 
 out of those two poor little girls next door, who just 
 worshiped him if only he 'd stop teasing and play with 
 them? 
 
 Mr. Donald Kendall did not remember much. Oh, 
 yes! he remembered the little girls, of course, and he 
 was very sorry he had been so rude and inconsiderate, 
 he was sure. 
 
 But the frown was still on his face and his eyes still 
 were somber and he was plainly nervous and impa- 
 tient and bored and enduring it all merely as a 
 necessary preliminary to the business on hand. At 
 last he turned to Sister Sue decisively, saying:
 
 DONALD KENDALL 159 
 
 "I've brought the music. I have it here what 
 I planned to play. But I'm afraid you will find it 
 er rather difficult. In that case there are one 
 or two others I could substitute them, if necessary. 
 Of course, I don't expect you to play them to-night 
 without first looking them over. You can practice 
 them a little to-morrow. Then to-morrow night I '11 
 come over again with your permission " (this last 
 plainly as an afterthought) "and we can try them." 
 
 "May I see them, please?" Sister Sue rose and 
 went to the piano. She was serene, demure, and in- 
 nocent, but there was an odd little something in her 
 eyes that would have puzzled Mr. Donald Kendall 
 very, very much had he seen it. 
 
 "Yes, that's what I wanted, to show them to you," 
 he said, hastily getting to his feet. "I just wanted to 
 tell you the tempo time, you know of some of 
 the movements." 
 
 "I see," murmured Sister Sue. "Suppose we take 
 first the the pieces you wanted to play," she sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "Very well." With a frown, and an obviously re- 
 signed sigh, the violinist selected some sheets of music 
 and placed them on the piano rack. Sister Sue looked 
 at the first page interestedly and nodded her head. 
 She did not hesitate long. The man took out his 
 violin and tested a string. 
 
 "Give me 'A,' please." 
 
 Obediently, Sister Sue struck the key. Still frown- 
 ing, still resigned, Donald Kendall pointed with the 
 bow in his hand to the opening score.
 
 160 SISTER SUE 
 
 "I take it about like this," he said, and played a 
 few bars. "Then over here" he turned the pages 
 rapidly "the andante should go slowly, very 
 slowly. Then the scherzo here, quick, animated 
 just as fast as you can and then 't won't be fast enough, 
 I '11 warrant." Sister Sue's lips came together quickly. 
 "Here, you have these runs and trills alone. And 
 those eight measures there, they're rather difficult, 
 you'll find. But, of course, they could be omitted, I 
 suppose, though 't would be a pity." 
 
 "Yes, it would," murmured Sister Sue. Then, 
 cheerfully, "Well, I think I understand. Shall we try 
 it?" she asked, turning back to the first page. 
 
 "Now?" 
 
 "Why, yes, I'd like to." 
 
 The man's frown deepened. 
 
 "But, Miss Gilmore! Now? Before you even 
 practice it? I wouldn't, really. You you'll get 
 discouraged at the very beginning while, maybe, 
 if you'd practice it " He let a significant pause 
 finish the sentence for him. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know," smiled Sister Sue sweetly. 
 "Very likely I can play it better after I practice it, 
 but I thought I 'd like to run it through once or twice 
 now." 
 
 "Run it through, run it through! Run it run 
 a concerto for the violin and piano through once or 
 twice!" Very plainly Mr. Donald Kendall had lost 
 his temper now and did not care who knew it. "Very 
 well, young woman, we will! But remember your sin 
 will be on your own head. I did my best to warn you.
 
 DONALD KENDALL 161 
 
 This is no 'Maiden's Prayer/ or 'Listen to the Mock- 
 ing Bird with Variations/ as you'll soon find out. 
 But I'll 'run it through' for you. I'll play it straight 
 through from the beginning to the end. I don't need 
 the notes. As for you, when you can, play; when you 
 can't, keep quiet and wait till a place where you can. 
 Above all things, don't drag. If you're not sure of 
 your notes, don't slow up and pick them out; stop; 
 stop, I say, and wait till you can come in again with 
 me. Now, ready ! " And he motioned for her to begin. 
 
 Over in the corner May gasped aloud. For one 
 brief instant Sister Sue looked as if she were going to 
 leave the piano. She did, indeed, half start from her 
 seat. Then, with a demure little smile, she lifted 
 her hands and struck the opening notes. 
 
 And then Donald Kendall began to play. Very 
 plainly he was master of the score and of his instru- 
 ment. At the first few notes from the piano, accurate 
 and unhesitating, he had turned sharply, his ques- 
 tioning eyes on the girl's unperturbed face. All through 
 the first half of the first movement he had the air 
 of one who finds himself walking on familiar ground 
 when he was expecting uncertainty to break through 
 a treacherous crust. But very soon evidently he for- 
 got that, and long before the end of the first move- 
 ment was reached, he had lost himself entirely in the 
 world of exquisite melody he was making for himself. 
 
 In the corner May caught her breath, and held it, 
 afraid to let it out lest some of the entrancing cadence 
 be lost. Martin Kent came up the walk, and May, 
 seeing him, went to admit him, her finger to her lips.
 
 SISTER SUE 
 
 Then together they tiptoed back to the parlor and 
 slipped silently into their chairs. 
 
 As from a single instrument under the will of a 
 single mind came the wondrous music, so exactly 
 were the two players together, whether in a swelling 
 paean of triumphant rejoicing or the whisper of some 
 fair voices far in the distance. Enchanted and en- 
 thralled, the two listeners across the room sat motion- 
 less. No less enchanted and enthralled, the players 
 themselves very clearly had lost all consciousness of 
 anything but the creation of their own melodious har- 
 mony. At the piano Sister Sue, as if under the sway of 
 some magic message from his mind to hers, kept pace, 
 note for note; now faster and faster, till her fingers 
 seemed scarcely to touch the keys; now slower and 
 slower, till each note was a lingering caress bringing 
 out the very soul of the instrument itself. And when 
 the last strain had quieted into silence, May and Mar- 
 tin Kent drew a long breath of ecstasy which was 
 echoed by Donald Kendall himself. 
 
 "That was something like!" he breathed. Then, 
 as if in sudden realization, he turned to the girl at the 
 piano. "And you you! For Heaven's sake, child, 
 who and what are you?" he demanded. 
 
 Sister Sue, whose face till that moment had been 
 rapt, eager, and alight, like the faces of the others, 
 changed color. 
 
 "I? Oh I I'm Sister Sue," she shrugged, 
 and, wheeling back to the piano, lightly touched the 
 keys perhaps to show that her answer was really as 
 light as it sounded to be.
 
 DONALD KENDALL 163 
 
 "But to to read like that, to say nothing of 
 playing as you did!" He stared, still with a puzzled 
 frown. 
 
 "Sister Sue was the crack sight-reader in Signer 
 Bartoni's class last year," bragged May shamelessly. 
 
 Then somebody remembered that Martin Kent did 
 not know Mr. Kendall; thereupon formal introduc- 
 tions were made, and the talk for a few moments be- 
 came general, but not for long. Without asking, Don- 
 ald Kendall turned again to Sister Sue. 
 
 "I'm going to play this for the second piece," he 
 began, eagerly placing on the rack a fresh score; 
 "would you mind trying this just a bit?" 
 
 "Oh, no! I would n't mind it at all." Sister Sue's 
 face had suddenly broken into a broad smile as she let 
 her fingers fall on the keys. 
 
 After that it was another, and another. 
 
 And so on they played, oblivious of everything but 
 themselves and their music before them. In the cor- 
 ner May yawned behind her hand and Martin Kent 
 fidgeted with his watch-chain, pulling at the watch 
 itself at intervals more frequent than polite. After a 
 time he rose to his feet. He said he must go really 
 he must. 
 
 May rose at once to her feet. 
 
 Donald Kendall said, "Yes, yes, to be sure. Good- 
 night." All of which was tossed over his shoulder with- 
 out so much as the turning of the head away from the 
 sheets of music he was sorting. 
 
 Sister Sue rose and came forward with her hand 
 outstretched. Under her breath she said she was
 
 164 SISTER SUE 
 
 sorry to have to seem inhospitable to him, but of 
 course he'd understand that she had to attend to the 
 music that evening. 
 
 Her eyes were very bright and her cheeks were very 
 pink and her whole face was alight with eager ex- 
 citement. Martin Kent's eyes were not bright, his 
 cheeks were not flushed, and not a bit of his face was 
 alight with eager excitement. Martin Kent, in fact, 
 looked actually cross as he strode down the walk to- 
 ward the street. Under his breath he was muttering: 
 "Deliver me from a fool man who does n't know a 
 thing but how to fiddle and wants to fiddle all the 
 time."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 GREETINGS AND ENCORES 
 
 BY Tuesday morning Old Home Week in Gilmore- 
 ville was in full swing. The whole town was having 
 a holiday. Cy Bellows had arrived the night before 
 and had been carried on the shoulders of a cheering 
 multitude to the final lucky choice of entertainers. 
 The drawing had been made and the manufacturers' 
 nine had won the star pitcher, and were off somewhere 
 now in secret session preparing for the grand game. In 
 another part of the town the disappointed, but by no 
 means discouraged, nine were also in secret session, 
 pledging themselves to see that it was no "walk- 
 over" and that they would give the shop boys "a 
 good fight, anyhow." 
 
 At ten o'clock Miss Kate Farnum, the novelist, 
 came accompanied by her secretary. With some re- 
 lief and all deference, but with no enthusiasm, the 
 ladies were escorted to the Inn and established in the 
 Bridal Suite of two bedrooms, bath, and reception- 
 room really a sumptuous apartment; though, as 
 the indignant hotel clerk afterwards reported, it was 
 not quite satisfactory the lady observing to her 
 secretary upon entering that the rooms were hot and 
 stuffy, and did she ever see such hideous wall-paper 
 in her life! 
 
 Mrs. French, the Chairman of the Committee for 
 Making Our Old Home Week a Big Success, and two
 
 166 SISTER SUE 
 
 of her henchwomen somewhat tremblingly waited on 
 the distinguished lady gave her a programme for 
 the entertainment the next day hoped that her 
 place on it was satisfactory and that she was in good 
 health said they were very glad to see her and felt 
 deeply honored by her presence. Conversation rather 
 languished after that, and the Committee took its 
 somewhat nervous departure, drawing a very long 
 breath when once outside the hotel door. 
 
 "Well! If our singer is any worse than she is, I 
 pity us," breathed Mrs. French with relief, taking 
 out a lace-bordered handkerchief and starting to 
 wipe her perspiring face with it, stopping just in time, 
 however, and substituting one with no lace from 
 another pocket. "Heaven knows I wish this first- 
 meeting part of the business was over!" 
 
 "And we've got to meet the singer at the depot," 
 mourned the Committee lady with the purple hat. 
 
 "I know it," sighed Mrs. French; "but it's the last 
 of 'em. Remember that." 
 
 "Goodness knows I hope she'll go to the Whip- 
 pies' ! " cried the third member of the Committee, 
 who wore glasses. "If Kate Farnum finds fault with 
 the wall-paper at the Inn, what do you suppose Viola 
 Sanderson, the grandest of 'em all, will say to that 
 little old Jones house?" 
 
 "I don't know," groaned Mrs. French. "But then 
 we need n't worry. She won't go there, of course." 
 
 "But Jane Jones thinks she's coming," spoke up 
 she of the purple hat. 
 
 "That ain't our fault," responded Mrs. French,
 
 GREETINGS AND ENCORES 167 
 
 somewhat haughtily. "We told her about the 
 Whipples' invitation. Now, remember! Four o'clock 
 sharp in the waiting-room at the depot. Then 
 we'll be all ready for the train at five minutes past," 
 she added as she turned down the street. 
 
 And at four o'clock sharp they were there Mrs. 
 French, the lady of the purple hat, and the one who 
 wore glasses. They had n't long to wait or worry, for 
 promptly on time the train rolled in and there stepped 
 down from the parlor car the handsomely dressed, 
 smiling woman whom they recognized from her pic- 
 tures as the great coloratura soprano. 
 
 It was at that moment that the full awf ulness of the 
 task before her struck Mrs. French dumb. Advancing 
 mechanically, she came to a stop, supported on each 
 side by the purple hat and the eyeglasses. But she 
 was silent. As if by intuition, Viola Sanderson under- 
 stood and came promptly to the rescue. 
 
 "And did you come to meet me!" she exclaimed. 
 "How perfectly lovely! And it is just like coming 
 home, is n't it?" 
 
 "How do you do?" "Yes'm! If you please." 
 "We're quite well, thank you" stammered miser- 
 ably the three members of the Committee for Making 
 Our Old Home Week a Big Success. Then Mrs. 
 French added: 
 
 "We've come to take you to the rich Mrs. Whip- 
 pie's." 
 
 "Yes." A swift shadow came over the singer's 
 face. "Oh, but my aunt. I I had a letter " she 
 hesitated.
 
 168 SISTER SUE 
 
 "Oh, yes. Mrs. Jones," nodded Mrs. French, quite 
 certain of herself now. "She did ask you. I was 
 going to say so, but I forgot. But of course you won't 
 go there." 
 
 "Won't go!" Viola Sanderson looked startled. 
 "Aunt Jane is n't sick, is she?" 
 
 "Oh, no! But the house is so small." 
 
 "And plain." 
 
 "And worse wall-paper than at the Inn." 
 
 "And feather beds." 
 
 "And no finger bowls." 
 
 "And kerosene lamps. And no tiled bathroom." 
 
 "And no lovely port portcullis. And no conserv- 
 atory." 
 
 "And nothing but old-fashioned furniture." 
 
 One after another these dire disadvantages were 
 rapidly hinted at to the astonished visitor by the 
 three flushed and perspiring Committee ladies. And 
 for a minute Miss Sanderson stared at them a lit- 
 tle confusedly, as she listened. Then suddenly she 
 laughed. And when the last came about the old- 
 fashioned furniture she held up a protesting hand. 
 
 "Oh! But I adore old-fashioned furniture," she 
 declared brightly. "And I'll have Aunt Jennie, any- 
 way, and that's what I want most of anything. So 
 please won't you take me to Mrs. Jones?" 
 
 "Why, yes. Of course. If you really want us to. 
 But but " 
 
 "I really want you to." Viola Sanderson spoke 
 pleadingly, earnestly. She smiled, too. 
 
 But there was a little something in her eyes that
 
 GREETINGS AND ENCORES 169 
 
 made the three Committee ladies, after one glance 
 into her face, stammer: 
 
 "Why, yes yes! Of course!" And they hur- 
 riedly led the way to the waiting automobile. 
 
 By night the town was filled to overflowing. Every 
 available bed in town had been appropriated. Cots 
 had been set up in chamber-halls and in lodge-rooms 
 and shelters hastily erected on private grounds. Pro- 
 digious stocks of food had been prepared, and one 
 might obtain a sandwich or a piece of pie at almost 
 every corner. 
 
 Four guests were at the Gilmores' house, besides 
 Gordon, who had cut short his camping trip by five 
 days and had arrived that morning. His coming was 
 a surprise to the family, for he had written that he 
 would not be there. But a telegram announcing his 
 expected arrival came just in time to prevent Sister 
 Sue from handing over his unoccupied bed to the dis- 
 traught Committee for Housing Our Guests. 
 
 "Come? Of course, I'd come!" he cried, when 
 Sister Sue greeted him that Tuesday morning. 
 
 "But you said you would n't not but what we're 
 delighted to have you, of course," laughed Sister Sue, 
 "only why the sudden change?" 
 
 " Cy Bellows ball-game. We got the news 'way 
 out in camp just in time. The idea of having him 
 here! Say! You could n't hire me to keep away! 
 The fellow who brought that thing about did some 
 stunt, let me tell you." 
 
 "Well, the 'fellow' was Sister Sue," boasted May 
 importantly.
 
 170 SISTER SUE 
 
 "Sue!" 
 
 "Yes. And Viola Sanderson, and Kate Farnum, 
 and Donald Kendall they're all coming! And 
 Sister Sue did that." 
 
 "Great work! Well, I shan't take back what I 
 said," retorted Gordon. "And so Donald Kendall is 
 coming, is he?" 
 
 "Yes and there he is now!" cried May, her eyes 
 on the tall figure coming up the walk. "And look at 
 the music he 's got. Lucky you told your pupils not 
 to come to-day, Sue," laughed May as she went to 
 the door. 
 
 "I had to. I found that out yesterday from the 
 pupils themselves. I could n't hold their attention 
 five minutes." 
 
 "Well, you can hold Donald Kendall's attention 
 all right," was May's parting shot. 
 
 "I'm going to play for him. He's coming to prac- 
 tice," explained Sister Sue to her brother in answer 
 to the somewhat mystified expression on Gordon's 
 face. "Oh, Gordon! His playing is something won- 
 derful." 
 
 A minute later Donald Kendall was in the room. 
 He said good-morning, and he acknowledged the in- 
 troduction of Gordon with a measure of cordiality, 
 but it all was plainly only a necessary formality that 
 had to precede the real business of the day. And in 
 another minute he had indicated what that business 
 was. 
 
 "I've brought two or three things here I'd like 
 to have you try once, please," he said to Sister Sue.
 
 GREETINGS AND ENCORES 171 
 
 "Here's that largo of Liszt's. We might decide to 
 play that instead of the concerto." 
 
 On the veranda, a few minutes later, Gordon ac- 
 costed his sister May, who had taken her writing- 
 pad to the vine-shaded corner, with: 
 "How long is that chap going to stay?" 
 "Till noon, probably. But he '11 be back again after 
 dinner (or luncheon, I believe the Kendalls call it), 
 I'll warrant. The creature has no sense of time 
 (except his own!) when he's playing, that's plain to 
 be seen. He stayed till half -past eleven last night. 
 Then something maybe I dropped a hint made 
 him take out his watch, and I saw his face fall. * I sup- 
 pose I'll have to go, it's so late,' he says with a frown, 
 'but to-morrow perhaps ' 'Yes, to-morrow I'll 
 be very glad to,' says Sister Sue. But even then he 
 stayed ten minutes longer, playing over and over 
 again a little phrase that he wanted to get just so. 
 Poor Martin! He stood it till half -past ten, hoping 
 for a moment with Sister Sue to himself. Then he 
 gave up in despair and left which was best for 
 it was exactly a quarter to twelve when Donald 
 Kendall strode down the walk to go home." 
 "Um-m! Martin '11 be getting jealous." 
 "Jealous, nothing!" scoffed May. "You can't be 
 jealous of a walking fiddle ! I don't believe that Don- 
 ald Kendall knows this minute whether Sister Sue is 
 the distractingly pretty girl she is, or whether she is 
 squint-eyed and freckled with a wart on her nose. 
 No, Martin Kent need never be jealous of him. But 
 he can play. Listen!" And she held up her finger as
 
 172 SISTER SUE 
 
 the strains of exquisite melody floated through the 
 open door. 
 
 Wednesday came. It was a perfect day. Certainly 
 all roads led to Gilmoreville that day. And long 
 before ten o'clock the hour for the ball-game 
 they were black with cars, carriages, wagons, and 
 even hay- wagons packed to the limit with cheer- 
 ing, horn-blowing humanity. Extra trains brought 
 more, and by ten o'clock there was no doubt as to the 
 success of the Gilmoreville Old Home Day if the size 
 of the crowds was any indication. 
 
 And it was a success. Unquestionably, it was a 
 success. Promptly at ten came the Ball-Game. It 
 lasted two hours. The manufacturers' nine won, of 
 course, as was expected, but they very unmistakably 
 had to fight for their victory, and the wildly ex- 
 cited spectators certainly got their money's worth of 
 thrills. At noon came the Banquet with the honored 
 guests at the head table where all might be seen. At 
 two o'clock came the Entertainment in the Big Tent. 
 The brass band covered itself with glory in the open- 
 ing overture which it had been practicing for weeks. 
 Miss Kate Farnum, the novelist, in a remarkable 
 costume which was a cross between a kimona and a 
 ball-dress, read thirty minutes from her latest novel 
 after first making sure that she had a glass of water 
 near by and that the ushers understood her orders 
 for none to be admitted during her reading. She was 
 very dramatic. Her voice rose and swelled almost 
 shrieked only to die away in a hoarse whisper that 
 sent delirious shivers down unaccustomed spinal
 
 GREETINGS AND ENCORES 173 
 
 columns. She was applauded wildly, which brought 
 only her secretary to the front of the stage to an- 
 nounce that owing to the great nervous exhaustion 
 following her readings it was impossible for Miss 
 Farnum to respond to any encore she must beg, 
 therefore, to be excused. This was received with 
 an uncertain applause that was promptly hushed 
 as if a restraining hand had been put forth with a 
 shocked: "Hush! You mustn't clap, because she 
 isn't coming." 
 
 The Unitarian minister then got up to introduce 
 the singer. The Baptist and Congregationalist min- 
 isters respectively had introduced the band and the 
 novelist with great flourish of verbal eloquence. It 
 remained for the Unitarian to outdo them if possible. 
 And he quite succeeded. Then appeared Viola San- 
 derson, in a blaze of green and gold and iridescence 
 that "just to see" was well worth the price of admis- 
 sion (according to Mrs. French and her of the purple 
 hat). There came a surprise then. The most of the 
 audience had never before heard a human songbird 
 who trilled and warbled in limpid notes of melody 
 that rivaled the flute and soared away above their 
 heads to unbelievable heights of liquid purity. And 
 when the exquisite voice had died into silence, there 
 came a burst of applause that would not be denied, 
 and that very plainly declared that no secretarial re- 
 sponse would do this time. But they need not have 
 feared. Again, and yet again, did the singer return to 
 make them marvel that such wondrous sounds could 
 emanate from a human throat, until at last, with
 
 174 SISTER SUE 
 
 smiles and bows and a deprecatory gesture of " Really, 
 dear people I can't, any more!" was she allowed 
 to rest. 
 
 It was left for the Methodist minister then to outdo 
 himself and all his brethren in his verbal triumphs 
 heralding their distinguished violinist, Mr. Donald 
 Kendall. And once again they went wild, those men 
 and women and children who never before knew that 
 "just a fiddle" could bring to their ears the winds 
 from the mountains, the voices from the sea, the 
 shouts and songs of triumphant multitudes, and the 
 despairing wail of a woman who has lost her soul; or 
 the tripping feet of fairies in the moonlight; or the 
 tramp of vast armies marching on to victory. Donald 
 Kendall was gracious but unsmiling. He came back 
 twice, and rewarded their enthusiasm with a dainty 
 little scherzo, then with a very tender rendering of 
 "Home, Sweet Home," which brought the house to 
 its feet in the wildest of cheers, notwithstanding the 
 scornful predictions the violinist's mother had made 
 two days before. He played it this time unaccom- 
 panied, however. It is doubtful, though, if half a 
 dozen disinterested persons in the audience noticed 
 whether he was accompanied or not. Those who 
 knew and understood, however, realized that the 
 quiet little woman at the piano was really depicting 
 the very heights of her art, by keeping her playing so 
 nicely attuned to his that it was but a background 
 against which his performance showed clear and dis- 
 tinct in all its wondrous brilliance and beauty. And 
 when the last echo of the applause had died away, the
 
 GREETINGS AND ENCORES 175 
 
 huge throng drew a long breath and dispersed, telling 
 of the marvels they had heard. 
 
 In the evening came the Reception and Ball, when 
 the guests of honor stood in line and became just 
 folks with hands that one might take, and faces that 
 one might gaze into, and say to, "I'm so glad to 
 meet you!" Even the writer lady consented to en- 
 dure this for a good half -hour before she pleaded 
 fatigue and retired to one of the thronelike chairs 
 which had been prepared for the honored guests 
 when the Ball should begin. 
 
 The Ball, too, was a success. True, the writer lady 
 declined gracefully to dance, and Donald Kendall 
 looked on from afar with eyes that were a trifle bored 
 if not scornful. But Cy Bellows danced with every 
 girl on the floor at least a few times besides 
 bringing down the house with a solo clog dance be- 
 tween two numbers on the programme. The singer, 
 too, danced. She danced with every daring man who 
 asked her, and with several who did not except 
 with their pleading eyes. And she left with them all 
 the memory of a charming smile and a cordial word 
 which would long be treasured by the fortunate re- 
 cipients. 
 
 Sister Sue was on the floor, and Sister Sue danced 
 frequently. She was radiantly smiling and her eyes 
 were bright, but there was, nevertheless, a tired lit- 
 tle something, somewhere, that the discerning could 
 plainly see. 
 
 She said, yes, oh, yes, it had been a wonderful day, 
 and the Entertainment was indeed very fine. And,
 
 176 SISTER SUE 
 
 yes, she had enjoyed it all greatly. To the one or two 
 who said: "But I heard you wrote the letters and got 
 all these great people here so we owe it all to you ! " 
 she answered: "Nonsense! What do those few let- 
 ters amount to? Any one could have written them. I 
 did n't do anything special!" And then she would 
 laugh again sweetly and say "Nonsense!" as she 
 turned away. 
 
 And when the last trainload of cheering visitors 
 had chugged out of the little station, and the last 
 automobile and hay-wagon had carried its burden of 
 horn-blowing humanity well out of hearing, the town 
 drew a long breath that was yet a deep sigh of con- 
 tent and laid itself down to sleep. Gilmoreville Old 
 Home Day had most certainly been an unqualified 
 success. 
 
 And in all the town there was probably only one 
 whose eyes were smarting with tears and whose 
 throat was tightening with a half -stifled sob. But 
 then, in all the town there was only one trying to 
 banish into the oblivion of forgetfulness that siren 
 call of "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore ! Encore! 
 Encore!"
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 DEPARTING GUESTS 
 
 VEKY early Thursday morning, before the first of 
 Sister Sue's pupils were due, Donald Kendall rang 
 the Gilmores' doorbell. 
 
 Delia admitted him to the living-room, then went 
 upstairs, where Sister Sue was telling her father for 
 the third time that morning all about the Old Home 
 Day Celebration. 
 
 "The fiddler he wants you, Miss," said Delia, 
 with a crispness that spoke loudly of her dishes cool- 
 ing in the kitchen sink. 
 
 "Me?" Sister Sue showed her surprise. 
 
 "He said you, Miss. I put him in the sittin'-room." 
 And Delia, whose especial detestation was to answer 
 the doorbell, particularly in the morning, turned and 
 clattered down the back stairway. 
 
 More slowly Sister Sue turned toward the front 
 part of the house. There was still a faint questioning 
 in her eyes when she entered the living-room, where 
 Donald Kendall was waiting alone. 
 
 "Good-morning, Mr. Kendall," holding out her 
 hand. 
 
 "Good-morning." Donald Kendall advanced hur- 
 riedly. He had the air of a man who had come with a 
 bit of news too good to keep. "It 's early, I know, but 
 I had to come right away. It came to me in the night 
 what I could do."
 
 178 SISTER SUE 
 
 "What you could do?" murmured Sister Sue, still 
 with a slight frown. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Ken- 
 dall." 
 
 "I must n't stop long." He dropped himself into a 
 chair as she took her seat. "I'll have to go back and 
 write to Dodge right away, of course. It did n't 
 come to me until in the night what I could do. But 
 now I know. I've decided to have you for my ac- 
 companist, Miss Gilmore. I'll pay you enough, of 
 course, so you can take your sister, or any one you 
 like, along with you for companionship and pro- 
 priety. But that's a mere detail. We can settle that 
 later. There will be no trouble about compensation, 
 Miss Gilmore. I start West on my first concert tour 
 in about two weeks. I thought you ought to know as 
 soon as possible." 
 
 Sister Sue had come erect in her chair. Her face 
 had shown blank incomprehension during the first 
 half of his speech, then amazement, then anger. 
 There was scorn in her eyes now, scorn with a tinge 
 of amusement. 
 
 "Well, yes, I should want to know as soon as possi- 
 ble if I were going on a concert trip with you," she 
 said. 
 
 "Yes, of course, of course!" He nodded abstract- 
 edly. He was not looking at her now. "As it is, there 
 is all too short a time to practice. But you are such 
 a good reader that 
 
 She interrupted him. 
 
 "Mr. Kendall. Just a minute, please. You don't 
 understand. I said if I were going on a concert trip
 
 DEPARTING GUESTS 179 
 
 with you; but I'm not. Why, Mr. Kendall, I can't 
 play your accompaniments for you!" 
 
 The man gave an impatient gesture. 
 
 "But I say you can! And I rather think I know. 
 You are away ahead of Dodge; you are away ahead 
 of - He paused, then went on with somewhat 
 pompous impressi veness : "Miss Gilmore, I can hon- 
 estly say that never have I had any one who plays 
 my accompaniments as you do. You never drag, 
 never pull. You are always superbly right there 
 with me." 
 
 He sat back with the gesture of one who has settled 
 a matter once for all. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Donald Kendall." Sister Sue 
 was still quietly smiling. " That is high praise, I know. 
 Yet still I must say I cannot play your accompani- 
 ments for you." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "It is absurd, out of the question. I cannot go 
 away like that." 
 
 "But you may take your sister, a companion, any 
 one. I told you that." 
 
 She shook her head a bit impatiently now. 
 
 "You don't understand. I can't leave my home. 
 I have duties here my father the home my 
 brother and sister " 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense!" he interrupted with the 
 rudeness of a spoiled autocrat whose will is crossed. 
 "You have some duties to yourself, have n't you? 
 Any one can do your work here. But the chance 
 I offer you See here, young woman, you don't
 
 180 SISTER SUE 
 
 seem to realize that you have talent extraordinary 
 talent. Are you going to waste it all in teaching 
 scales and five-finger exercises to a dozen urchins 
 who'll never know the difference between a Bee- 
 thoven symphony and 'Johnny, Get Your Gun'? 
 Have n't you any ambition? Don't you ever want to 
 do something worth while in the world?" 
 
 Long before he had finished speaking she was on 
 her feet. There was no smile on her lips now nor 
 amusement in her eyes. She was white and shaking. 
 Her voice, when she spoke, was not steady. 
 
 "Ambition? Something worth while in the world? " 
 she repeated. And then, all reserve swept aside, she 
 told him her heart's longings. She told him what the 
 great music-master had said. She told him what she 
 hoped and hungered to do. And so vividly did she 
 tell it that even the startled man across the room 
 seemed to hear at least the echo of that call: "En- 
 core! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! Encore! Encore!" 
 
 She paused then, but only for breath. In a moment 
 she went on chokingly. She told him of the failure and 
 all the horrors and terrors that had walked in its wake. 
 She told of her father's condition now and of how 
 dependent on her he was. She spoke of Gordon and 
 of May and her hopes for them. And, as she talked, 
 Donald Kendall was irresistibly compelled to see that 
 the position of Sister Sue in her home was one around 
 which, as on a pivot, the whole family had for years 
 revolved. All the while she spoke kindly, yet fer- 
 vently, with little half -finished phrases more eloquent 
 by far than if they had been completed. It was a rush
 
 DEPARTING GUESTS 181 
 
 as of long-pent-up forces that had suddenly found 
 vent. Then, without warning, in the middle of a sen- 
 tence, she broke off with a little sob : 
 
 "Oh, what have I said! What have I said!" she 
 moaned. "I must have been beside myself to talk like 
 this to you to any one ! But the things you said - 
 If you can, forget; and " Then very calmly, 
 "There's Carrie now, for her lesson. If you will 
 excuse me, please." 
 
 The next moment Donald Kendall, at first cha- 
 grined, then dumbfounded and dismayed, and with 
 a feeling almost of humiliation, found himself alone. 
 Almost at once came the droning one-two-three, one- 
 two-three, one-two-three, from the room across the 
 hall, and then Mr. Donald Kendall arose, picked up 
 his hat, and went home. 
 
 Although, as the words would imply, Gilmoreville 
 Old Home Week ostensibly continued through the 
 entire seven days, yet in reality there was but little 
 in the way of entertainment or of interest after that 
 wonderful Wednesday. There were a few family re- 
 unions, and sundry parties and picnics. Viola San- 
 derson stayed through the week with her aunt and 
 apparently minded not at all the privation of "no 
 portcullis and conservatory." Cy Bellows left on the 
 morning train Thursday, followed by the ringing 
 cheers of half the town as long as the train was in 
 sight. Miss Kate Farnum and her secretary left 
 on the same train. Hearing the shouts Miss Far- 
 num looked out of the window and smiled and bowed 
 very graciously to the cheering throng. She seemed
 
 182 SISTER SUE 
 
 pleased, better pleased, perhaps, than she would have 
 been had she known that those shouts were not for 
 her, but for the popular ball-player in the car behind. 
 But she did not know, which did Cy Bellows no 
 harm and may possibly have done her some good. 
 
 Donald Kendall left, too, that same Thursday, 
 though later in the day. In the afternoon he went 
 over to the Gilmores' and said his stiffly proper fare- 
 wells. He thanked Sister Sue formally for playing his 
 accompaniments so finely, but he avoided her eyes 
 except for a brief instant at the last, and then he 
 did n't meet them, for Sister Sue, herself, was look- 
 ing somewhere else. He shook hands with May and 
 Gordon, and then hurried away. 
 
 "I don't imagine he's improved much in man- 
 ners," observed May as the gate clicked under his 
 hand. 
 
 Sister Sue did not reply. She was very busy over 
 some music at the piano. Then the next moment 
 Jennie Howard came for her lesson. 
 
 Jennie had a poor lesson. It was plain to be seen 
 that she had practiced very little. She bungled her 
 scales and hit innumerable wrong notes in her 
 "piece." She played inattentively and out of time. 
 It was the same with all the pupils that came after- 
 wards, until by night Sister Sue was completely worn 
 out with the fret and annoyance of it all. She was 
 still very tired when Martin Kent came that evening; 
 so tired that she was not like herself. She sat back 
 in her chair on the veranda, listless and preoccupied, 
 while May and Martin chatted over the events of the
 
 DEPARTING GUESTS 183 
 
 day before. Frequently they turned to her with a 
 question, and she answered, but still listless and still 
 preoccupied. Yes, Viola Sanderson was very winning 
 and very affable indeed. No, she did n't care much 
 for the novelist. Yes, Donald Kendall was a fine 
 player. Yes, she danced with Cy Bellows, once. No, 
 she did n't call him handsome. Yes and no; no and 
 yes. That was all. 
 
 When May went into the house after a time and 
 left the two together, and w T hen Sister Sue gave an 
 abstracted "no" to his last question asking her if she 
 had ever seen worse weather than that of the day 
 before, Martin Kent promptly remonstrated: 
 
 "Sue! For Heaven's sake, what's the matter with 
 you to-night?" he asked. "No, no; yes, yes. That's 
 all anybody can get out of you. And I Ve just proved 
 that when you say even that much you have n't any 
 idea as to w T hat you are really saying. I asked you if 
 you had ever seen worse weather than we had yester- 
 day, and you very serenely answered 'no'; while, as 
 it so happened, there could n't have been a more per- 
 fect day and you know it." 
 
 The girl aroused herself and laughed shame- 
 facedly. 
 
 "Martin, I beg your pardon. I'm horrid, I know 
 it; and I was n't thinking of what you were saying. 
 But I will now, I promise. Try me." 
 
 "But what is the matter with you?" 
 
 "Tired, I suppose." 
 
 "Of course you 're tired ! Digging at that old piano 
 every minute since Monday evening when that fool
 
 184 SISTER SUE 
 
 violinist first found out you could play. Did n't the 
 man have any sense?" 
 
 Sister Sue laughed. 
 
 "Well, to tell the truth, I don't think'he had a su- 
 perabundance of it when he got his violin in hand. 
 But I did n't mind that, really. The long hours of 
 practice I loved them. It it was to-day all 
 day those impossible children stumbling through 
 their lessons ! " She paused, then went on with a 
 whimsical smile, "You know, it is n't easy to come 
 down to peeling potatoes after having had a little 
 fling at eating frostings." 
 
 "H-mm! I suppose not." Martin Kent was still 
 fretting. "But that eternal practicing for that exact- 
 ing man had something to do with it, just the same," 
 he maintained. "It was wearing, very wearing." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "I did n't feel it; not that. I loved it. But, Mar- 
 tin ! You should have been here earlier that Monday 
 night, when he first came in, and heard the instruc- 
 tions the dear man gave me about not dragging and 
 not playing at all if I could n't keep up with him." 
 
 "Yes, I know. May told me," grunted the man. 
 "Impertinent puppy!" 
 
 "He was n't exactly polite," laughed Sister Sue, 
 "but, as Gordon says, 'he can play!" 
 
 "So can you," retorted Martin Kent. "But he 
 need n't think, just because of that, he can keep you 
 playing for him all the time." 
 
 "I don't think he does." An amused expres- 
 sion had come to Sister Sue's face. "He said this
 
 DEPARTING GUESTS 185 
 
 morning but never mind," she broke off with a 
 shrug and a quick ^change of manner, "he's gone 
 now." 
 
 "Yes, he's gone now," echoed Martin Kent with 
 a sigh that was obvious in its content. "And as for 
 those tiresome, never-ending children they '11 be 
 gone one of these days. Just wait till my 'Trixie* 
 makes a hit!" 
 
 "I'm waiting," smiled Sister Sue mischievously. 
 
 "You don't believe in it, but listen. I received a 
 letter from the publishers to-day and they report a 
 very good advance sale. A very good one," he re- 
 peated impressively with aggrieved emphasis. 
 
 But Sister Sue only laughed again and said: "I'm 
 waiting." 
 
 With the passing of Old Home Week Gilmoreville 
 settled down and went about its usual business. With 
 the tent removed and the sidewalk attractions ban- 
 ished, there was little but memory to remind the vil- 
 lagers of that one glorious week of debauch. 
 
 In the Gilmore homestead it seemed to Sister Sue 
 that life had reverted even more than ever into a mere 
 matter of potato-peeling for her. Martin Kent had 
 gone back to the city, and she and May told each 
 other they did not know how much his breezy visits 
 meant to them until they were without them. 
 School had opened and Gordon was enrolled as a 
 pupil, but he was plainly holding himself very much 
 aloof from the other boys and also making himself 
 and everybody else miserable. May had definitely
 
 186 SISTER SUE 
 
 given up trying to enter college. If there was not 
 enough money coming in, she said, to send her de- 
 cently and properly she did not care to go. As for 
 trying to pay her way partly by waiting on tables, or 
 darning the other girls' silk stockings, she preferred 
 not to go at all rather than do these things. Much to 
 Sister Sue's disappointment, therefore, she had given 
 up all idea of a college education. 
 
 "But, May! I could help you a lot, and maybe 
 I could pay it all, after a little," pleaded Sister Sue. 
 
 "Yes, and how should I feel with all my old friends 
 swelling around in their good clothes and me behind 
 their chairs waiting on them, and begging for their 
 silk stockings to darn! Mercy! Sue, I couldn't do it." 
 
 "I suppose it would be hard," replied the elder 
 girl. 
 
 "Besides," avowed May with a sudden but some- 
 what forced display of unselfish consideration for her 
 sister, "as if I'd go away, anyhow, and leave you 
 slaving here at home to pay my bills. Certainly not ! " 
 
 "But, May, you need it. You need it in your work. 
 
 "I'm going to write here at home. Martin says I 
 can. I told him before he went away that I was n't 
 going to let you slave yourself to death helping me 
 through college." May pursed her lips virtuously. 
 "And we have it all fixed. I'm to write my story, 
 send it to him for correction, then I copy it and send 
 it to an editor. That won't cost anything but stamps 
 and paper and typewriter ribbons. Martin 's going to 
 send me his old machine, you know. I told you that."
 
 DEPARTING GUESTS 187 
 
 "Yes, you told me that. Martin 's very kind, very 
 kind. Still, that is not like a college for you," replied 
 Sister Sue as she turned away. 
 
 In the hall she met her father with his garden 
 trowel in his hand. "I'm going out to do a little dig- 
 ging," he said. "I think I'll transplant some of those 
 asters." 
 
 "Yes, but, Father, it's too cold," she remonstrated, 
 gently taking the trowel away and turning him to- 
 ward the stairs. "And you have n't even your hat on. 
 Come, dearie, let's go back up to your room. You 
 know it 's September now and we can't dig so much 
 in the garden." 
 
 "Oh, yes. I see, I see." Meekly the old man let 
 himself be led back to his room. 
 
 It was never any trouble to make John Gilmore 
 "see." He was always "seeing" whatever they 
 wanted him to see. It was only that they had to make 
 him see the same things so many times, over and over. 
 And now that the weather was cooler and he could 
 not be out of doors so much among his beloved flowers, 
 he was more restless and uneasy than ever, taxing 
 Sister Sue's tact and patience and ingenuity to the 
 utmost. 
 
 And there also were the pupils. Unmistakably Sis- 
 ter Sue was finding it hard to come down to potato- 
 peeling after her "fling at the frosting." With the 
 exquisite notes of a Beethoven concerto played by 
 Donald Kendall in her ears, it was much harder to 
 listen to the bungling rendition of the day's exercise 
 in C major played by Susie Smith.
 
 188 SISTER SUE 
 
 It was all so humdrum, so hopelessly commonplace, 
 so hopelessly of no account. Sister Sue sighed to her- 
 self at times. And when she had so hoped to make 
 something of her life really worth while ! 
 
 To Granny Preston she frequently flew for refuge. 
 
 "When I just can't stand it another minute, I 
 have to come to you," she panted one day, dropping 
 breathlessly into a chair. "You don't mind?" 
 
 "Mind? Of course not. I'm glad to have you. It 
 gives me something to talk of besides my aches an' 
 pains an' troubles." 
 
 "As if you ever let anybody know you had any!" 
 scoffed Sister Sue. 
 
 "Pooh!" With a wave of her hand the old lady 
 tossed this aside. "Well, child, what is it to-day? 
 Did Susie Smith strike C instead of G, or is Miss May 
 crying over a story the editor would n't take?" 
 
 "Neither. Oh, yes, both." Sister Sue corrected 
 herself with a faint smile. "We always have those 
 with us, like the poor. But, Mrs. Preston, it 's really 
 serious this time. I'm worried, and I haven't the 
 faintest idea what to do." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Gordon." 
 
 "The school? He don't like it, I suppose." 
 
 "Oh, that's better now. He's gotten over his 
 snobbishness. I did talk him out of that. And he's 
 doing splendidly in his studies, too. The head 
 master, himself, told me so. But I'm beginning to 
 wish now he did n't like the boys quite so well. He 's 
 with them all the time, out of school hours, hanging
 
 DEPARTING GUESTS 189 
 
 around the station and the hotel and Dan Bowles's 
 pool-room." 
 
 "Why don't you have them here?" 
 
 "Here! In that tomb of a parlor with th hair- 
 wreath and the coffin-plates? Suppose you try get- 
 ting them to come!" 
 
 "I will, if you'll do what I say." 
 
 Sister Sue stared frankly. Then she gave a short 
 laugh. 
 
 "Oh, I'll do what you say all right, I'll promise. 
 Only I warn you, this is no case of too much soda in 
 the pie-crust, Mrs. Preston. But I'll do what you 
 say even if it's to give them a pink tea." 
 
 "Thanks. That's just about what I want you to 
 do," nodded the little old lady imperturbably. 
 
 "Mrs. Preston!" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "You don't understand! I'm trying to tell you 
 that the boy won't even stay at home with me! He 
 wants to be off all the time. All he wants to do is to 
 hang around those horrid places and smoke with the 
 boys, and some of them are not nice boys. They 
 smoke and drink and gamble and swear, and Gor- 
 don is getting awful in his manner and in his language, 
 so rough and coarse. And you talk of giving him a 
 pink tea!" 
 
 "Gordon's all right. He's just trying to be a man 
 among men. I know; I've had boys of my own." 
 
 "But he's always been a gentleman before," fal- 
 tered the girl: "even though he has smoked cigarettes 
 in spite of anything I would say. But never before
 
 190 SISTER SUE 
 
 has he been coarse and rough and uncouth in his 
 ways." 
 
 "H-mm. Does he dance?" 
 
 "He used to down there in Boston during 
 school, of course. And they were beginning to have 
 little dances among themselves when when we 
 came away." 
 
 "H-mm. Care for girls?" 
 
 Sister Sue flushed. 
 
 "I I don't know." 
 
 "H-mm. Well, I know. He either does and owns 
 up to it, or does and won't own up to it. I know ; I 'vo 
 had boys of my own. I know a few other things, too. 
 I have ways of finding out things in this town. I 
 know that Kitty Sanborn wanted a dance last winter 
 and her ma would n't let her have one 'cause 't would 
 hurt their nice new hardwood floors. And I know that 
 Bessie Merrill wanted a party a month ago and her ma 
 would n't let her have it 'cause 't would cost too much 
 to feed all them young folks. And I know that Mis* 
 White and Mis' Anderson won't let their children 
 ever bring home company 'cause they clutter up and 
 wear out the carpets and bang up the furniture. And 
 I know that" 
 
 But Sister Sue interrupted. 
 
 "You don't have to say another word not an- 
 other word!" the girl said, jumping to her feet, 
 laughing and dancing up and down on her toes. "I 
 know it all now. And he shall have his pink tea 
 you wait and see." 
 
 "Molasses candy and popcorn make a fine treat,
 
 f.\ i.-': 191 
 
 and they ain't a rnite costly," called out Mrs. Preston 
 as her visitor flew out of the door. 
 
 Hurrying down the [jack stairs, Sister Sue was mut- 
 tering to " U 'ear out the carpets and bang up 
 the furniture! Indeed! Humph!" Going straight 
 into the stiff, cheerless parlor she stopped and gazed 
 at the things about her. "If I take away the hair- 
 'h anrj the coffin-plates, that will help some," 
 she mused. Then she pulled up a shade and moved 
 two chairs out of line. "And if I put in a few extra 
 chairs that will help some more." 
 
 Five minutes later, the hair-wreath under one arm 
 ami the framed coffin-plates tinder the other, she met 
 May on the stairway. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake! What are you doing?" ex- 
 claimed May. 
 
 "Getting ready to give a pink tea to your brother," 
 answered Sister Sue, proceeding on her way with a 
 chuckle regardless of the amazed ejaculations and 
 questions that followed her all the way to the 
 attic. 
 
 But when she told her brother the next day she did 
 not call it a pink tea. 
 
 "I suppose you could n't get together a big enough 
 crowd to have a real country-style candy-pulling, 
 could you? Say for next Wednesday evening?" 
 
 'Could n't I? Just try me and see." (As if Sister 
 Sue did n't know that Gordon never passed any 
 sort of a "dare"!) 
 
 "Well, how many could you get?" 
 
 "How many do you want?"
 
 192 SISTER SUE 
 
 Sister Sue calculated rapidly. "Why, perhaps six 
 boys and six girls." 
 
 "Done! You give us the candy to pull and I'll see 
 that you have the crowd here to pull it." 
 
 "Good! Next Wednesday night, then, at eight 
 o'clock," said Sister Sue. And to hear her nonchalant 
 voice one would never suspect that she had spent 
 hours planning just how to approach Gordon with 
 the subject, and that she was even then quaking in 
 her shoes lest she had said too much or not enough. 
 
 For the next few days Sister Sue was indeed busy 
 arranging things around the house and getting her 
 plans into shape for Wednesday night. May had 
 declared that as for herself she would have nothing 
 to do with any of Gordon's crowd and was surprised 
 that her sister allowed him to invite them. She did 
 not propose to put herself in a position where she 
 would have to speak to every hoodlum on the street or 
 else pretend not to see them. As it was, it was humil- 
 iating enough to have her own brother speak to 
 them when she was walking with him. 
 
 "What do you suppose the Kendalls will think 
 when they see Joe Anderson and his sisters with their 
 beaus from the Whipple shops coming in here?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "I don't know," replied Sister Sue. "I have heard 
 that Joe Anderson won the hundred-dollar prize for 
 the best set of housing plans for the employees of the 
 Kendall shops and that he had been promoted to 
 a very responsible position in the company's office. 
 And I heard that George White had talked with the
 
 DEPARTING GUESTS 193 
 
 men at the Whipple shops and persuaded them not 
 to go on strike last week." 
 
 "Yes, I know all that," rejoined May, "and I know 
 also that George White's brother Tom was found in 
 a barn down on the Meadow Road dead drunk the 
 next day after the big ball-game and the Kendalls' 
 superintendent discharged him as soon as he heard of 
 it. Gordon has invited him here, and Gordon says he 
 has accepted the invitation." 
 
 "I have heard that story," replied Sister Sue; 
 "Gordon told me; but Gordon does not believe that 
 Tom was intoxicated; he thinks he had been drugged 
 and robbed at some gambling game." 
 
 "But are you going to have him here, now, in the 
 face of the talk about him all over town? " asked May 
 in astonishment. 
 
 "Yes; I wrote a special note to Tom and told Gor- 
 don to make him promise he would surely come 
 Wednesday night, that I wanted him to sing and let 
 me play his accompaniments. You know Tom has a 
 wonderful tenor voice," quietly explained Sister Sue. 
 
 "Oh, Sue! How could you? What will Martin say? 
 You first neglect Martin to play Donald Kendall's 
 accompaniments, and now, without consulting him, 
 you propose to play accompaniments for Tom White. 
 You must be crazy over your old piano-playing," 
 angrily cried May. 
 
 But Sister Sue had no time for argument. She still 
 had much to do before her work for Wednesday night 
 was finished. May could not help now, because she 
 must finish the manuscripts for her new story, which
 
 194 SISTER SUE 
 
 Martin Kent had recently corrected and returned to 
 her. Its title was to be "On the Mountain-Top," 
 and Martin had written her it was the best piece of 
 work she had ever done and any publisher would be 
 glad to get hold of it, so she told Sister Sue the day she 
 received it back with Martin Kent's corrections. 
 
 John Gilmore seemed much more feeble these days 
 than he had been, though usually he had been quite 
 contented to remain in his room with his pictures, 
 except at times when he would suddenly start out 
 bareheaded and inform anybody he met that he 
 needed a little exercise and thought he would walk 
 downtown that day to his office. 
 
 The pupils were farther advanced now and were 
 more interested in their lessons and they were not so 
 vexing and tedious as they had been. 
 
 And so when Wednesday night came all was ready. 
 Sister Sue had taken out the rugs and tables and 
 chairs from the big, wide hall, and had moved the 
 piano to another corner in the parlor, making room 
 for several more chairs and a few small tables. The 
 evening was cool and the air crisp, and Delia in the 
 kitchen was very happy with a large kettle of boiling, 
 bubbling syrup on the stove, and plates and spoons 
 and flour and butter on the kitchen table. Mrs. Pres- 
 ton had said, "Delia is a dabster at fixing up mo- 
 lasses for candy-pulling and popcorn balls," and so it 
 proved. 
 
 Gordon had been true to his word and his "crowd" 
 was all there. Three girls, Kitty Sanborn and Bessie 
 Merrill and Grace Walker, came first. Sister Sue wel-
 
 DEPARTING GUESTS 195 
 
 corned them at the door and told them to run upstairs 
 and put their wraps in her room. Then came George 
 White with his sister Ruth. He told Sister Sue his 
 brother Tom had not been home since the day be- 
 fore, but he thought he intended to come. Joe Ander- 
 son came alone, but said his sisters were on their way 
 with their beaus. Gordon had all the boys go to his 
 room, where they spent more time than was necessary 
 in fixing their ties just right and adjusting their cuffs 
 so that exactly the proper amount of white would 
 show. A few minutes past eight Tom White came. 
 Sister Sue had been watching for him and was at the 
 door to meet him. 
 
 "Good-evening, Tom," she said. 
 
 "Good-evening, Miss Gilmore. I am sorry I am 
 late, but I had something important that is, it was 
 important to me that I wanted to get before I 
 came here," he said, "and I had to go down to the 
 Junction to get it. I have it here," and he handed her 
 a folded piece of paper. "Please read it, Miss Gil- 
 more." 
 
 Sister Sue opened it and read: 
 
 mister Tom white, kendalls Supe gave us the names of 
 his men what had dough in thare pockets we gave him five 
 dollars a name we doped them to get thare stuff. He told 
 us to make you good & sick & we did i no why he fired 
 you & it was a dirty trick, if he dont put you back on your 
 
 job d quick he will here things Show him this leter 
 
 STUBBY 
 p s Im the Supes bruther 
 
 "I am glad, Tom, that what we heard was not
 
 196 SISTER SUE 
 
 true," said Sister Sue as she handed the note back to 
 him. 
 
 Tom flushed, and said: "Some of it was true, Miss 
 Gilmore. I did gamble, but I'm done. I shall ask the 
 superintendent to write me a letter offering my old 
 job back and saying he was mistaken in his reason for 
 discharging me, but I shall not go back there to work 
 nor will I show the letter to anybody unless neces- 
 sary," explained Tom as he went upstairs. Just then 
 Ed Baker and Frank Woods came, with the two 
 Anderson girls. 
 
 By ten minutes past eight exactly six boys came 
 downstairs in a bunch and were vainly trying to ap- 
 pear unconcerned while exactly six girls in the parlor 
 immediately began to chatter and laugh as they ap- 
 peared. Sister Sue told them she had been lonesome 
 ever since Old Home Week and had wanted a little 
 party to liven things up for her. She told them she 
 wanted some music and singing and was very glad 
 they could all come. 
 
 As she talked to them, she sat at the piano play- 
 ing softly little alluring snatches of ragtime and old 
 country-dance music, and she asked if they supposed 
 there was room enough in the hall for some of them to 
 dance while Delia was getting things ready out in the 
 kitchen for the candy-pulling. She looked toward 
 Gordon for a reply and he at once asked Kitty San- 
 born if she would try it with him. Then Joe Anderson 
 went over to Ruth White (who was tapping her toe in 
 time to the music) and asked her if she would start off 
 with him. The music was now changing into a lively
 
 DEPARTING GUESTS 197 
 
 little two-step and soon four couples were forgetting 
 their embarrassment in the witchery of the dance. 
 
 Sister Sue turned to Tom White while she was 
 playing and asked him please to bring Grace Walker 
 to the piano so they could talk and arrange for some 
 songs right after giving the dancers a few more turns 
 at the two-step. 
 
 In a few minutes the music began to slow down. 
 The dancers clapped for more, but Sister Sue smiled 
 and let it drift into the familiar little melodies of 
 "Old Kentucky Home," "In the Starlight," "Music 
 in the Air," and at a nod from her Tom and Grace 
 began to sing "Annie Laurie," then following it with 
 " Clementine " and "Jingle Bells," and soon the voices 
 of the whole crowd were heard either joining in or 
 humming at parts of the chorus until Delia appeared 
 from the kitchen announcing: 
 
 "If you folks want to pull any candy, now's the 
 time. And come quick!" 
 
 With the boys' "Hurrah for Delia!" and, "You 
 bet we want to pull candy!" and the girls' excited 
 little screams and shrieks of laughter, they all rushed 
 into the kitchen, where Delia had two or three well- 
 buttered plates of thick masses of soft, hot sugar 
 ready for pulling. 
 
 "Now, some of you just get out on that back 
 piazza; there ain't room enough for all of you in here," 
 she told them; "I've got to have standin'-room while 
 I learn some of you how to pull it." 
 
 Then she rubbed flour over her hands and took up 
 one of the portions of soft, hot sugar, stretching it out
 
 198 SISTER SUE 
 
 and folding it together quickly and repeating this a 
 few times, occasionally flouring or buttering her hands 
 lightly to prevent the sugar's sticking to them. 
 
 "Now, Joe, you an' Kitty wash your hands an' 
 wipe 'em dry an' rub them over with flour an' take 
 this bunch I 'm doin'. Be spry about it or it '11 git too 
 cold to pull," ordered she. 
 
 "An' you, Tom White, you an' Bessie Merrill git 
 your hands fixed for this bunch an' go out on the pi- 
 azza with it. Stretch it way out, double it over an' 
 give your end to Bessie, then stretch it ag'in an' make 
 Bessie give you her end. Stretch it so it '11 be kinder 
 flat-like. Keep a-stretchin' and doublin' it until it 
 begins to git kinder hard to stretch, then pull one end 
 way out 'bout as far as you can an' as flat as you can, 
 lay it on one of these here buttered platters an' cut it 
 off. Then stretch out some more the same way an' 
 cut that off. You '11 have to be mighty quick or it '11 
 git hard an' won't stretch. 
 
 "An' you, Frank, if you've got your hands washed 
 you may pop the corn; put it in this big pan, an' 
 we'll have some popcorn balls. I'll show you how 
 to make 'em when you git the pan filled up. Keep 
 the pan up there over the stove so the corn won't git 
 cold." 
 
 Thus Delia put them to work, sending some out on 
 the back piazza where, with shrieks and laughs and 
 "Oh, my hands are all sticky!" and "It's hot, take 
 it quick!" and "You almost dropped it!" they soon 
 had a very creditable array of platters and pans cov- 
 ered with long strips ready to be cut up into sticks
 
 DEPARTING GUESTS 199 
 
 and small pieces of real old-fashioned molasses candy. 
 Delia attended to cutting it up and putting it on to 
 smaller plates and setting it outdoors to cool. In 
 the kitchen Frank Woods and some of the girls had 
 made a panful of popcorn balls and these were out- 
 doors cooling with the candy. Then the boys helped 
 Delia wash the dishes and the girls wiped them. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the big parlor, Sister Sue had ar- 
 ranged the tables and chairs and had brought in some 
 cake and lemonade, and was ready for the young peo- 
 ple, who now were beginning to come in with plates 
 heaped with the candy and popcorn balls of their own 
 make. Probably never before had one of those boys 
 or girls experienced the real fun and frolic, the jollity 
 and genuine sport of getting together and spending 
 an evening as they were spending that one at the old 
 Gilmore homestead that night in October. 
 
 While they were eating and merry-making Sister Sue 
 was lightly touching the keys of the piano, improvis- 
 ing little tunes and weaving into them bits of har- 
 mony from Schubert and Chopin and Liszt as she 
 followed the moods of her guests. When they had 
 finished their candy and cake and had drank their 
 lemonade and were talking of going home, she asked 
 them to give her just one more song and then she 
 would let them go. After that, somewhat reluctantly, 
 they went upstairs for their hats and wraps. The 
 boys, as they came down, told Sister Sue her "party" 
 was the "best thing ever," and that she was "all 
 right" and "we hope you will have another one soon." 
 The girls told her they enjoyed the dance, and candy,
 
 200 SISTER SUE 
 
 and everything, and just wished they could have her 
 to their houses sometime. 
 
 "I thank every one of you so much for coming 
 to-night, and if you will come again I shall be very 
 glad. You've all made me very happy and I am so 
 glad you have enjoyed it, too," said Sister Sue to 
 them as they went down the walk. 
 
 "You're a brick! A regular brick!" exclaimed 
 Gordon as she closed the door, and he emphasized his 
 statement with a hug a very unusual thing for him 
 to do. "I was having a tough time getting the fellows 
 to say they would come here until I told them they 
 could dance and do any old thing they wanted to. 
 They took my word for it, and now the whole bunch 
 wants to know if you'll have 'em here again." 
 
 "They may come again just as soon as you want 
 them and as often as they want to," replied she. 
 "Perhaps we can fix up that large chamber over the 
 kitchen for a headquarters and you can get up some 
 kind of a club if you want to." 
 
 "Bully good idea! " exclaimed Gordon as he started 
 upstairs for bed. "Good-night, Sis." 
 
 "Good-night, Gordon." 
 
 And that night a very tired but a very happy little 
 girl went to sleep with a smile on her lips and a heart 
 full of gladness because she knew the "pink tea" had 
 been a success.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A "BEST SELLER" AND A POSTPONED MARRIAGE 
 
 " TRIXIE " came out the first of November. It did not 
 prove to be the Great American Novel, but it did 
 become that other will-o'-the-wisp and unexplainable 
 surprise, a "best seller." It was the sort of a book 
 of which one person, having read it, immediately says 
 to his neighbors on both sides of him, "Have you read 
 'Trixie'? Well, you want to, right away." That's 
 the kind of book nothing can stop. The publisher, 
 with the feeling of an engineer catching on to a train 
 that has astonished him by starting off on its own 
 accord, begins to advertise it widely. Half the critics 
 laud it to the skies, while the other half either ignore 
 it entirely or spend perfectly good time and perfectly 
 good space, not in reviewing it, but in heaping anath- 
 emas on those who have reviewed it favorably. By 
 December it had sold forty thousand copies. Christ- 
 mas swelled it another forty thousand, and New Year's 
 saw it still going strong with the hundred-thousand 
 mark in sight. 
 
 Martin Kent accepted his success gratefully, even 
 modestly in a way, though to his fiancee he did write 
 a trifle boastfully: "What did I tell you?" 
 
 From her and from May, as from all his friends, he 
 received hearty congratulations. May, in particular, 
 wrote him that she was fairly green with envy. He 
 was interviewed, dined, and banqueted. In maga-
 
 202 SISTER SUE 
 
 zincs and newspapers appeared his portrait together 
 with his quoted opinion (occasionally accurate, but 
 usually otherwise) on all manner of subjects ranging 
 from the best time to eat apples to the worst habits 
 of the Fiji Islanders. From all over the country 
 came letters requesting autographs and locks of hair. 
 Movie Men and Screen Bureaus approached him with 
 offers; and "Trixie" drinks, cigars, pajamas, and silk 
 stockings appeared on the market. 
 
 In February the successful author, pleased and 
 proud, but a little dazed with it all, ran up to Gil- 
 moreville to see his fiancee. 
 
 "I just tore myself away," he said, "and I 've got to 
 go back to-morrow. I 'm guest of honor at a banquet, 
 and I have to speak before a Woman's Club the next 
 day. But I Ve been trying for so long to get here." 
 
 In the evening, when John Gilmore had been put 
 to bed and May and Gordon had left the two lovers to 
 themselves, Martin Kent told why especially he had 
 come. He said that surely now there need be no fur- 
 ther delay. He wanted to be married, and he could 
 be married now that this blessed book had made it 
 possible. 
 
 He was very tender, very affectionate. He uttered 
 some very beautiful sentiments that would have 
 thrilled any girl's heart and that certainly would 
 thrill the heart of a very tired little girl who, for so 
 long, had borne the weight of heavy, heavy burdens. 
 And they did thrill Sister Sue, to whom all eyes had 
 turned, all hands had reached, and all feet had run 
 when anything under the sun was wanted.
 
 203 
 
 It was with a very long sigh of utter weariness, 
 then, but with a measure of content as well, that 
 Sister Sue said yes, she would marry him. She would 
 marry him in two months yes, in one month, if he 
 liked. 
 
 "Fine! In one month, then, please! My little 
 sweetheart my wife," breathed the man with a 
 fervent kiss. "And down there with me, once away 
 from this, we'll have those roses back in your cheeks, 
 dearie." 
 
 "Away from this!" She drew back, startled. 
 "Why Martin, you know I can't leave here " 
 
 "Nonsense! Of course you can leave. You did n't 
 think I was coming Jiere to live, did you, sweet- 
 heart?" 
 
 "Why, y-yes, I did, Martin. I I thought that 
 was what we 'd always planned." Her eyes were trou- 
 bled now. 
 
 He laughed lightly. 
 
 "But plans change, you know, when circumstances 
 change. Surely, darling, you were n't thinking of 
 making me spend the rest of my days in Gilmore- 
 ville, were you?" 
 
 "You you would n't want to, then, even for 
 for a time?" 
 
 He laughed again lightly. 
 
 "I'm afraid not, my dear." 
 
 "But you liked it you said you liked it, last 
 summer." 
 
 "So I did for a visit." He frowned a bit im- 
 patiently. "But to live here is quite another matter.
 
 204 SISTER SUE 
 
 Why, Sue ! I 'd stifle here starve grow mad ! As 
 for thinking of writing here impossible ! I 'm sure, 
 dear, you don't want to quite spoil my career, now." 
 
 "Oh! No, no. Of course not!" She spoke quickly, 
 but her eyes were still troubled. "I was thinking, 
 of course, of Father." She paused. The man said 
 nothing. After a moment she went on, more slowly, 
 "I'm afraid he won't be so contented anywhere else, 
 and it's easier here, where he knows everybody and 
 everybody knows him, to take care of him and keep 
 him occupied." 
 
 "Of course, of course! I would rCt think of moving 
 him," said the man in cordial agreement. 
 
 The girl turned sharply. 
 
 " You mean you don't mean for us to go and 
 leave him here?" she cried incredulously. 
 
 "But I do, dear." The man spoke pleasantly, with 
 a cheerful, matter-of-course manner. "Your sister 
 May is here, and Gordon, and you have Delia in the 
 kitchen. And Mrs. Preston is right in the house. 
 Your father will be all right, dear. Don't worry. Be- 
 sides, you can run up yourself to see him now and 
 then." 
 
 She gave an impatient gesture. 
 
 "Run up and see him, indeed!" she scorned. 
 ** Martin, can't you understand? Can't you see that 
 what you ask is impossible simply impossible? 
 You don't know how much he depends on me. He 
 always did even before he was sick they all did." 
 
 "Yes, I know they did," interposed Martin Kent 
 gently.
 
 A POSTPONED MARRIAGE 205 
 
 She paid no attention to his interruption, but went 
 on earnestly: 
 
 "He is not quite so well now, Martin. He's more 
 restless, more confused. Lots of times he does n't 
 know where he is, has to be told, led out of doors and 
 down the street, and then led back, just to show him 
 he really is at home, you know. And I have to do 
 that always. Delia can't, of course, and May and 
 Gordon can't. They have n't the patience. Why, 
 Martin! I could n't leave him with May. She 
 would n't consent, ever. Besides, she has her own 
 work to do and she loves it. I don't want her life 
 spoiled. I want her to do something worth while. 
 She's too young, anyway, to be left like that with 
 all the cares. 
 
 "Even if it was n't for Father, there's Gordon. 
 You don't know, but Gordon was was getting in 
 a bad way, rough and coarse and out nights, and 
 hanging around hotels and pool-rooms. But I've 
 changed all that. May says this place is a regular 
 clubhouse now and I suppose it is, but I don't 
 care. We've fitted up a big room upstairs with 
 tables and games and books and magazines and an 
 old billiard-table; and almost always some of the 
 boys are there. And we have sings and candy-pulls 
 and dances downstairs. You should hear me play 
 ragtime and dance music! I never thought I could, 
 but I do. Oh, I make them hear good music, too, and 
 they're getting to like it. We've started a little or- 
 chestra; Gordon plays the bass viol he loves it. 
 But if I went away all this would stop and he'd
 
 206 SISTER SUE 
 
 go back, I know he 'd go back, to those awful pool- 
 rooms again. Martin, don't you see? I can't leave 
 them here I can't. I shall have to take them with 
 me. Can't you see that I shall?" 
 
 "No, I can't." Impatiently the man got to his 
 feet and began to move restlessly up and down the 
 room. Then abruptly he stopped and faced her. 
 
 "Sweetheart, can't you see that that is exactly 
 what I want to get you away from it all? You are 
 wearing yourself all out. You've done enough. Let 
 some one else take the burden now." 
 
 "Martin!" 
 
 "Yes, I know you think I 'm urging you to do some- 
 thing wrong and selfish. But it's not that way at all. 
 They're selfish themselves to want you to give up 
 your whole life to them. Oh, yes, I know they depend 
 on you. They always have. It's been, * Sister Sue '11 
 do it.' * Sister Sue '11 go.' * Sister Sue '11 stay.' But 
 it's time all that was stopped. It's time Sister Sue 
 had more chance to live her own life." 
 
 She smiled a little wistfully. 
 
 "Yes, I know. I sometimes have longed for a rest, 
 just a little rest for a little while, but some one must 
 do these things. What you say sounds all very pretty, 
 but, Martin, you know as well as I do that there 
 are some things that have to be done. I was going 
 to live my own life until that day when Father 
 was brought home unconscious. Everything changed 
 then. It had to change, Martin." 
 
 "Yes, yes. I understand," admitted the man ir- 
 ritably. "But that was then. Things are different
 
 A POSTPONED MARRIAGE 207 
 
 now. 'Trixie ' had n't made a hit then. 7 was n't in a 
 position to do anything then. I am now. I want you 
 and I need you. I need you for incentive, inspiration. 
 Seems to me you ought to consider me and my needs 
 a little." 
 
 "Oh, Martin!" She smiled at him reproachfully. 
 
 " Well, I do. I 'm considering you. Seriously, dear, 
 now listen. I want you to get away, quite away, from 
 all this care. And it can be done if you '11 only be 
 sensible and reasonable. If the people here can't take 
 proper care of your father, we '11 find a good sanita- 
 rium somewhere that can. Gordon will soon be going 
 to college, and May '11 be getting married. Until then 
 they may stay with us." 
 
 "Thank you, Martin." The girl's voice trembled 
 a little, though she was speaking now very quietly. 
 "But Father would not be happy in a sanitarium, and 
 to be away from me, too. Martin, I carit do that. I 
 shall have to have him where I can look after him 
 myself." 
 
 "But how can you stand it, dear, to see him like 
 that? So broken and childish not himself at all? 
 I can't. It makes me positively ill. It unfits me for 
 everything. I can't bear " 
 
 "You won't have to, Martin," interrupted the girl 
 very quietly, but very pleasantly. "Come, we won't 
 talk any more about it, please. It cannot do any 
 good; you know we cannot possibly agree. As Fa- 
 ther is now I can't marry you, for I can't leave him. 
 Now, let 's talk of something else your book, your 
 work, what you are doing that 's new and interesting."
 
 *08 SISTER SUE 
 
 "But but dearest " 
 
 "No please, Martin. Don't let us spoil the 
 whole of this one evening we are together." Deter- 
 minedly and with brisk cheerfulness she began to 
 talk of "Trixie" and the curious letters that had 
 come to him from all over the country. 
 
 When he had gone an hour later, she still carried 
 the same air of brisk cheerfulness upstairs to her 
 room. She even hummed a meaningless little tune, 
 just such a little tune as one would hum if one was 
 trying very hard not to think.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 REVELATIONS 
 
 FEBRUARY passed and March came. "Trixie" had 
 reached the hundred-thousand mark now and was 
 still selling, so Martin Kent wrote. Martin Kent's 
 letters to his fiancee were still frequent, still affec- 
 tionate, still brightly full of his doings and of the 
 honors being showered upon him. He was tenderly 
 solicitous of her health and welfare but he said 
 nothing whatever about being married. 
 
 Sister Sue's letters in return were also frequent, 
 affectionate, and frequently full of the doings and 
 sayings in the Gilmore household but they also 
 said nothing whatever about marriage. The subject 
 was tacitly tabooed. 
 
 In Gilmoreville Sister Sue pursued her daily round 
 with at least a semblance of serenity and good cheer. 
 In reality she was still humming that meaningless 
 little tune of the woman who does not want to 
 think. She was so busy, however, through the day 
 that she had little time to think, and she was so tired 
 when it came night that her insistent counting of 
 sheep jumping over a wall usually brought the de- 
 sired sleep. 
 
 And Sister Sue was, indeed, busy. The number of 
 her pupils had increased, and she was teaching in the 
 Gilmoreville Graded School, as well as in the school 
 at the Junction ten miles away. In a rash moment 
 of sympathy for a much-harassed minister, she had
 
 210 SISTER SUE 
 
 taken upon herself the playing of the piano for the 
 Sunday-School. The rehearsals of her home-talent 
 orchestra made still more demands on her time, to say 
 nothing of the increasing popularity of her sings and 
 candy-pulls. Even May had to be counted in for no 
 small share of attention, for May was already trying 
 to sell her stories, and when they came back, flanked 
 with their cruel rejection slips, there was no one 
 quite like Sister Sue to soothe her, and give her com- 
 fort and sympathy and to put those undiscerning 
 editors where they belonged with a few well-chosen 
 words of sharp, stinging rebuke which May only 
 wished they could have heard. 
 
 And above all else, always there was for Sister Sue 
 the childish old man, who was growing day by day 
 more exacting. 
 
 Indeed, there was no doubt that Sister Sue was 
 busy that winter in Gilmoreville. She told Mrs. 
 Preston sometimes that she was very, very busy 
 peeling those potatoes; that she would n't mind her 
 backaches and headaches if she were only doing some- 
 thing really worth while. But to be so utterly weary 
 and then have nothing to show for it but a pan of 
 peeled potatoes ! And then she would make up 
 a wry little face and shrug her shoulders and, with 
 a merry twinkle in her eyes, glance over to Mrs. 
 Preston, who would always remark: "I'ma-thinkin' 
 more folks is needin' potatoes ter-day than turkey." 
 Then both of them would laugh. 
 
 But it all helped and made it easier to go back to 
 the potato-peeling.
 
 REVELATIONS 
 
 In June Gordon was graduated from the High 
 School. He was valedictorian of his class. His sister 
 was proud of him and told him so. He was eighteen 
 years old that spring. He had told Sister Sue that he 
 had carefully considered the matter from all sides 
 and had decided not to go to college. He was going 
 into business, he said. And he said it with a very 
 brave show of meaning it, too, but she was not so 
 easily deceived by his words. She detected the "Oh, 
 I wish I could go" under his effort to appear indif- 
 ferent. 
 
 So Sister Sue laughed and said "Nonsense!" That 
 he was going to do no such thing; that she could ar- 
 range beautifully now to send him, she was sure, if he 
 would n't mind being a little economical and did n't 
 choose too expensive a college and would perhaps 
 help a little himself. 
 
 And Gordon kissed her (a quite extraordinary trib- 
 ute for him to pay) and said she was a peach, and a 
 brick, and he'd wanted to go all the time, only he 
 did n't want to be a selfish pig about it. And of 
 course he'd help pay his way. He'd black boots, or 
 wait on tables, or shovel paths, or anything She 'd 
 see ! He said he could begin this summer to earn some 
 money, but, in thinking it over, he did n't believe he 
 would after all. Better start fresh in the fall. Besides, 
 he had another chance to go camping this summer 
 where he had such a good time last year, and he knew 
 Sister Sue would want him to do that. And Sister 
 Sue said, "Yes, yes, indeed! Of course!" 
 
 And so on the first of July he went.
 
 212 SISTER SUE 
 
 Martin Kent came the sixth. All the spring he had 
 been writing his fiancee that he was coming to Gil- 
 moreville for a vacation. He said it was just the 
 place he needed, and he was really looking forward to 
 the quiet of the old town with its quaint, comfortable 
 Inn. To say nothing of his longing to see her his 
 dear sweetheart. 
 
 He arrived at five o'clock, and at eight o'clock he 
 walked down the long, elm-shaded street leading to 
 the big, white colonial house known as the old Gil- 
 more homestead. Sister Sue was first to see him 
 coming. She was- sitting on the veranda with May 
 and her father. She gave one comprehensive look at 
 the tall figure exhibiting so unmistakably the handi- 
 work of a city tailor, even at that distance, then she 
 hurriedly rose to her feet. 
 
 "Come, Father. It's time we were going in, I 
 think." And she took firm hold of his arm. 
 
 "Oh, no. I don't want to go in," he said gently, 
 but decidedly. 
 
 "But we'll have to. Come, Father, come!" she 
 cried. "Please come, quick!" And so urgent was her 
 voice this time that it penetrated even the befogged 
 brain of the mumbling old man, and he rose as if im- 
 pelled by some hidden force. They were well out of 
 sight, indoors, by the time the tall, well-groomed 
 figure of the man came up the walk. 
 
 It seemed to Sister Sue, afterwards, that this little 
 incident was portentous of all the experiences that 
 followed during the next few w r eeks. As the days 
 passed, always she was luring her father into the
 
 REVELATIONS 213 
 
 house, or upstairs, or out of doors, somewhere, any- 
 where, so that he might not offend the eyes of Martin 
 Kent with his undesired presence. (All day Sister 
 Sue might hum those meaningless little tunes so that 
 she might not think think think; yet she al- 
 ways was remembering what Martin Kent had said 
 about seeing her father. She did not have to think to 
 remember that!) 
 
 Sometimes it seemed to her as if the task of keeping 
 her father and Martin Kent apart was an impossible 
 one. For a considerable time now John Gilmore had 
 been showing himself more and more averse to being 
 left alone. He wanted always to be with somebody. If 
 left alone in his own room, it would n't be long before 
 he would be seeking Sister Sue or May or Gordon, or 
 even Delia in the kitchen. Only in his flower garden 
 was he content to be by himself. And it was there, 
 whenever possible, that his daughter would lead him 
 at sight of Martin Kent coming down the street or up 
 the walk. Fortunately, however, night found the old 
 man very tired and he was always ready to go to bed 
 early. For Sister Sue it left the evenings free from 
 her ever-present fear that her father would walk into 
 the room to show his box of paper pictures or to ask if 
 she would n't please take him home, saying that he 
 wanted to go home soon. The latter meant always 
 that, if he was to be made happy, the two of them 
 must put on their hats (and coats if necessary) and 
 walk up or down the street and across to the other 
 side, coming back again to their own doorway, which 
 never failed then to elicit a contented "Oh, I'm so
 
 214 SISTER SUE 
 
 glad to get home," from the weary man at Sister 
 Sue's side. 
 
 But it was this, all this, that Sister Sue did not want 
 to happen in Martin Kent's presence. Hence her 
 ceaseless endeavors to have her father well out of the 
 way and happily occupied when her lover was in the 
 house. 
 
 Not that Martin Kent himself said anything to 
 make this necessary. On the contrary, he was always 
 very pleasant, even gently cordial when, in spite of 
 Sister Sue's vigilance, he and John Gilmore sometimes 
 met. He often inquired, too, very solicitously, for 
 his health. But Martin Kent was very affable, very 
 gracious, in all his ways these days. He was all ten- 
 derness and sympathy for Sister Sue when he found 
 her so tired in the evenings, and he was tireless in his 
 efforts to help May in her short-story writing. May 
 told Sister Sue he was perfectly lovely, and not 
 spoiled a bit by all his wonderful success, and he was 
 such a help to her! And Sister Sue smiled and said 
 she was glad, very glad. 
 
 And Sister Sue really was glad. She was glad not 
 only to have May so aided in her work, but she was 
 glad that there was some one in the house who could 
 help entertain Martin Kent and make up for her own 
 delinquencies as a hostess. For with her father and her 
 pupils Sister Sue was finding very little time to give 
 to Martin Kent except the evenings. And Martin 
 Kent was often there through the day. He liked the 
 cozy, vine-shaded veranda, and he liked to help May 
 all he could, he said. Besides, there was a chance,
 
 REVELATIONS 215 
 
 once in a while, that he might occasionally catch a 
 peep at Sister Sue ! he declared. So almost every day 
 he came to sit on the vine-shaded veranda with May. 
 Not that he always sat there. Quite frequently he 
 suggested a walk. He said it was cooler up on the hill 
 in the pine grove back of the house, and they could 
 work up there better. That there was not the same 
 chance up there of "catching a peep" at Sister Sue 
 evidently did not occur to him. 
 
 But it did occur to Sister Sue. She was ashamed to 
 admit it, even to herself. But a great many things 
 were occurring to Sister Sue these days, instigated, she 
 very well knew, by the chance sentences that had 
 come to her ears one recent Sunday when she was on 
 the way out of Sunday-School where she had been 
 playing the piano for the singing. In front of her 
 were two slow-moving teachers, and she was obliged 
 to slacken her own eager steps for a moment. And 
 it was at that moment that the sentence floated 
 back to her. 
 
 "It was Sister Sue yes that played And 
 he 's engaged to her but everybody says they 
 should think 't was the other one the way they 're 
 gallivanting off together all the time." 
 
 Unseen, Sister Sue slipped to one side through the 
 crowd and waited until the two women were quite out 
 of sight. Then she came down the steps and walked 
 home a little hurriedly and her cheeks pinker than 
 usual. 
 
 Silly gossip, of course. But what a pity ! Must she 
 forbid their going out at all together without a chap-
 
 216 SISTER SUE 
 
 eron? She had never thought it necessary before to 
 have a chaperon in this little country town, their own 
 home town as well. And Martin Kent, the child's 
 future brother-in-law, too! What a shame that idle 
 tongues should try to make capital out of a simple 
 daylight walk to the little pine grove on the hill back 
 of their own home! And, too, when they obviously 
 went with books in their hands to study there; and 
 very plainly in an effort to get away from the tiresome 
 thumping of her pupils at those eternal scales and 
 five-finger exercises ! How absurd ! How wicked, too ! 
 Gossip like that always hurt a girl ! It was a shame ! 
 But to stop it; that was the problem. To say in so 
 many words, you must not talk nor walk together any 
 more. Oh, she could not do that! She never could! 
 Why, it would look as if she distrusted them and was 
 cheaply jealous of her own sister! And if she ex- 
 plained, told them about the gossip, that would be 
 worse. It would make them self-conscious and 
 and impossible to be together. It would entirely spoil 
 their frank comradeship, and of course put a stop to 
 the "lessons" with all their wonderful aid and en- 
 couragement to May. And what a pity to do all that 
 just because of a silly bit of gossip! 
 
 Of course, if there were any truth in it 
 And just here it came to her with almost blinding 
 force What if it were true ? What if they had begun 
 to care for each other? What if But that was ab- 
 surd, of course. She would not so misjudge them. 
 Certainly she could drive such unworthy thoughts 
 from her mind.
 
 REVELATIONS 217 
 
 But this was just what she found she could not do. 
 In spite of her determination and her scornful denials 
 to herself, she found herself watching, always watch- 
 ing, whenever she saw them together. She found her- 
 self inventing excuses to go out on the veranda when 
 her sister and Martin Kent were there, and she found 
 herself knowing the minute they left the house for a 
 walk to the pine grove on the hill, and watching the 
 clock till they returned. 
 
 And she saw: 
 
 That Martin Kent's eyes lighted up when May 
 came into the room, and that they followed her as she 
 moved about; that he deferred to May's wishes and 
 whims and opinions on all occasions; that he worried 
 as to whether May was too warm or too cold, when 
 it never seemed to occur to him that his fiancee might 
 need a fan or an extra wrap; and that he and May 
 had many little jokes and laughs together in which 
 she herself had no part. 
 
 Not that any of these things of themselves were so 
 very great, she told herself, but they were significant, 
 and she admitted that. She began to admit some- 
 thing else, too. Would it, after all, be so very strange 
 if Martin Kent did turn to her sister May? May was 
 young, pretty, and very attractive. May had no 
 cares. She was free to be with him whenever he 
 wanted her. Moreover, there was the great bond of 
 their common literary interests. They could spend 
 hours talking plots, local color, and atmosphere. 
 While as for herself ! 
 
 Sister Sue studied herself in the mirror one day.
 
 218 SISTER SUE 
 
 She flung the shade far up and let the sunlight in, and 
 she was shocked. Undeniably she was looking old 
 and careworn. She had grown thinner since coming 
 to Gilmoreville, and the little hollows in her cheeks 
 and the dark circles under her eyes were not becom- 
 ing. Her hair showed lack of care, and not the sim- 
 plicity of taste in arrangement, but the simplicity of 
 haste which is quite different in effect. Her dress, 
 too, was plainly selected for its durability and not for 
 its attractiveness. She remembered that she did n't 
 have leisure to give Martin Kent whenever he saun- 
 tered over in search of companionship and amuse- 
 ment. The house her father a pupil, always 
 there was something to detain her. And when evening 
 came she was so utterly worn out with it all that very 
 likely she was stupid and unattractive. Moreover, 
 she did not have that "community of interest" with 
 Martin. Plots, local color, atmosphere, bored her 
 only to a degree less, perhaps, than her music bored 
 him. He had never cared much for music. It might 
 not, then, be so very strange, after all, if Martin 
 Kent should turn to her sister May. 
 
 Prepared, however, as Sister Sue was for the thing, 
 it came to her as a distinct shock when she came into 
 the living-room late one afternoon and found May in 
 Martin Kent's arms. With a little cry from May 
 they sprang apart. Then May stood looking from 
 one to the other, biting her lips and twisting her fin- 
 gers nervously. The man's face had grown first color- 
 less, then a dark, painful red. With a very obvious 
 effort he began to speak, his eyes on the girl in the
 
 REVELATIONS 219 
 
 doorway who had stopped short and was standing 
 there now quietly, her face a little white. 
 
 "There is n't anything I I can't, Sister Sue" 
 implored the man. 
 
 Sister Sue stirred suddenly. It was as if the familiar 
 appeal of "Sister Sue" had cleared away a fog of 
 indecision. She came forward at once, at the same 
 time slipping a ring from the third finger of her left 
 hand. Very faintly she smiled. 
 
 "No, there is nothing you can say, Martin, except 
 what you have said. It is 'Sister Sue.'" She 
 dropped the ring on to the table by which he stood, 
 then turned and left the room swiftly. 
 
 That evening, on the veranda, when it was so dark 
 one's face could not be plainly seen, May came to 
 her and dropped on a low stool at her feet. 
 
 "Sue, won't you just let me talk to you?" she 
 faltered. 
 
 "Why, certainly. Talk all you like." Sister Sue's 
 voice was calmly expressionless. 
 
 "I know there is n't anything I can say not any- 
 thing," choked the girl, "that will do do any real 
 good, or take away the the awf illness of the thing. 
 But I I want you to know that that what 
 you saw to-day never happened before. It it 
 was the first time and we we were were just 
 as much surprised as you were." 
 
 "Were you!" 
 
 "Oh, I know, I know!" exclaimed May feverishly. 
 "Nothing I can say will seem to do any good, when 
 you saw with your own eyes. But, Sister Sue, listen.
 
 220 SISTER SUE 
 
 Thoughtless, and silly, and selfish, and everything else 
 that I am that's bad and foolish, I don't lie. You 
 know I don't lie. You do know that?" 
 
 "Yes. I know that, May." 
 
 "Well; then you must believe me when I say that 
 that was the first time what you saw and that 
 we never realized where we were drifting, until 
 until it was right on us, or that we cared that way. 
 And I want you to know that we 're going to kill it 
 both of us. I'm going away." 
 
 "Nonsense, child! You'll do no such thing! As if 
 I 'diet you!" 
 
 "But, Sister Sue, we're in earnest, really. We're 
 not going to meet again for a long, long time. Martin 
 is going to write to you and and explain and ask 
 you to forgive and forget and take back the ring. 
 And he's going to bow in the dust. He said he 
 was." 
 
 Sister Sue gave a short laugh. 
 
 "And does he think I want a lover that he picks 
 out of the dust? No, May. All that is impossible, 
 quite impossible. You'll see it yourself after a little 
 thought. Do you think for an instant that I would 
 want to marry a man who cared for another woman, 
 and that woman my sister who cared for him, too? 
 Don't be absurd, May!" 
 
 "But we're so sorry! so heartbroken!" 
 
 "You shouldn't be. You should be glad that 
 you've found it out before it's too late. I am." 
 
 "Are you, really?" 
 
 "Very glad. It would have been unfortunate, you
 
 REVELATIONS 
 
 know, if you had found it out after he had married 
 me." 
 
 "But it looks as if we'd been so false 
 quivered May. "And, truly, Sister Sue, we never 
 thought we never dreamed of such a thing," 
 she hurried on feverishly. "And it was over such a 
 silly little thing that we we found out. I got a 
 splinter in my finger out on the board fence when 
 reaching through for nasturtiums, and when I came 
 in I found Martin here, and I asked him to get it out, 
 and he did, and and Honestly, Sister Sue, I 
 don't know how it happened, but all of a sudden he 
 had me in his arms and and was kissing me and 
 and saying things. Then you came. Oh ! Sister 
 Sue, it was awful ! What did you think? And we were 
 just as surprised as you were. But I know now that it 
 it's been coming on a long time with me. I always 
 liked him, and thought he was perfectly lovely. Then 
 when he began to help me, and we had such a lot of 
 things to talk about I know now that I was always 
 watching for him, and that I was never so happy as 
 when with him, and he says it's been the same way 
 with him, too. He found himself watching for me 
 and waiting for me, and glad when we could be off 
 by ourselves. He told me that to-day after you 
 you went away. But right off we we agreed 
 that we 'd kill it, and we will, Sister Sue, because I 'm 
 sure we can ! Oh ! We 're going to try so hard and - ' 
 
 "Nonsense!" interrupted Sister Sue, rousing her- 
 self briskly. "Don't talk that way any more, May. 
 When I dropped that ring on the table I dropped
 
 222 SISTER SUE 
 
 myself quite out of Martin Kent's life except, of 
 course, as 'Sister Sue,'" she amended with a slight 
 lift of the eyebrows. "Now, come. We know what is 
 to be done. The only thing left is to decide how and 
 when to do it. You will be married, of course. The 
 sooner, the better, I think, under the circumstances, 
 which will suit Martin Kent, I am sure. He wanted to 
 marry me last March, so he'll be ready; merely a 
 change in brides, that's all." 
 
 " Sister Sue ! You you 're awful ! " 
 
 "Awful? Not a bit of it. I hope I'm sensible. 
 That's all." 
 
 "But but Martin is going to write you." 
 
 "Very well. I'll answer. And he'll like my letter. 
 Never fear. This is n't a penny dreadful or a stage 
 melodrama that we 're living, you know. There '11 be 
 no hysterics or heroics. We shall conduct the matter 
 with dignity and with as little cause for gossip as is 
 possible. You will go away to live, of course. I'm 
 glad of that. It would n't be so easy to keep tongues 
 quiet if you were here as a perpetual reminder." 
 
 "But Sister Sue. You?" faltered May. 
 
 "Don't worry about me." Sister Sue's lips came 
 together a bit grimly. "As I told you, there'll be no 
 hysterics or heroics, and I shan't die of a broken heart. 
 Never fear." 
 
 "Sister Sue, I I think you're wonderful!" 
 breathed the younger girl. 
 
 "Wonderful? Not a bit of it! I I'm just Sister 
 Sue, that 'sail." 
 
 "Sue, Sue, Sister Sue are you out here?" queried
 
 REVELATIONS 223 
 
 a man's voice from the doorway. Even her father 
 called her "Sister Sue" sometimes. 
 
 "Yes, Father. I'm coming." With a sigh that was 
 quickly stifled, Sister Sue got to her feet and went 
 into the house.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 SOME READJUSTMENTS 
 
 GRIMLY Sister Sue faced the thing. Calmly she 
 thrashed it out in her mind. There would, indeed, be 
 no hysterics or heroics. She was not that kind. She 
 thanked Heaven for that. Besides, when one comes 
 right down to it, the thing what she was doing 
 was not so different from what she had been doing all 
 her life. She was merely substituting a lover for the 
 larger apple or the bigger piece of cake, and letting 
 little sister have it. That was all. Surely, she ought 
 to be used to that sort of thing by this time! 
 
 To be sure, it was not exactly soothing to one's 
 pride to be thus so lightly tossed aside for a younger, 
 fairer face! There would be a slight period of rather 
 painful readjustment. There was bound to be that. 
 
 Women, like the two gossips coming out of Sunday- 
 School that day, would love to roll the thing over 
 their tongues and nod "I told you so" to each other. 
 She must expect that. Other people, their own friends 
 and acquaintances, might stare and marvel a little at 
 the metamorphosis in the bride. That, also, was to 
 be expected. But at the worst it would be but a nine 
 days' wonder, soon over. Then some other matter 
 somewhere would claim their attention. 
 
 As for her own feelings in the matter Sister Sue 
 was experiencing the realization of a curious phenom- 
 enon; where before, ever since her talk with Martin
 
 SOME READJUSTMENTS 225 
 
 Kent in February about leaving her father, she had 
 been trying hard not to think, think, THINK, of Mar- 
 tin Kent, she was now conscious of no such effort 
 on her part. She was quite willing to think of him. 
 He seemed already a being quite apart from her life. 
 She was amazed, and a little troubled, that she could 
 think of him in that way so calmly so almost in- 
 differently. Was she, then, so cold-hearted, so fickle- 
 minded? Surely, when one's lover failed one so 
 utterly as to 
 
 Like a flash in the dark there came the explanation 
 why she, ever since February, had been mentally 
 humming the meaningless little tunes so as not to 
 think, think, THINK of Martin Kent, and why now 
 she could think of him so calmly, so indifferently. 
 
 It was not now that her lover had failed her. 
 (A thing that was already black could not become 
 blacker.) She knew now that it was in February that 
 he had really failed her;*in February when he had 
 pleaded for an immediate marriage, peremptorily 
 suggesting a sanitarium for her father, and at the 
 same time so unmistakably indicating his own ab- 
 horrence of the presence so dear to her. She knew 
 now why something had seemed to snap within her 
 at that time. She knew now why she had then grown 
 so numb and cold, and why from that moment she 
 had always unconsciously been putting the thought 
 of Martin Kent as far from her as possible. She 
 knew now why, when she saw his arms about her sis- 
 ter, there was n't the sharp stab of a new hurt, but 
 the dull ache of an old one. For that matter, as she
 
 226 SISTER SUE 
 
 looked back at it, she could now see that from the 
 very day of the catastrophe that had brought such 
 changes into her life Martin Kent had continuously 
 been found wanting when put to the test of real aid 
 and comfort. She knew that always in her own 
 mind she had been finding excuses for him, always 
 she had been either telling herself that it was "just 
 Martin's way," or she had been trying to put some 
 word or action of his quite out of her thoughts. As 
 she looked back at it, there had, for a long time, 
 been this growing sense of hurt and disappointment 
 which had now culminated in a thing that precluded 
 excuse and that most certainly could not be dis- 
 missed with a placating "Oh, that's just Martin's 
 way." She still felt, however, that it was not now 
 that she had lost her lover, but months ago on that 
 day in February, just as she felt that no matter when 
 her father should die she had really lost him on the 
 day he was brought home unconscious from the office. 
 
 As for May Martin Kent would very likely 
 make May happy. Certainly she hoped he would. 
 They would at least have the same interests, and May 
 had no household cares or filial duties to prevent his 
 taking her where he liked. 
 
 There remained, then, only the readjustment of 
 matters so as to make as little commotion and talk as 
 possible in Gilmoreville. 
 
 In the morning came Martin Kent's note by special 
 messenger. It was a beautiful note. Not for nothing 
 was Martin Kent a fiction writer. He did, as May 
 had predicted, bow himself to the dust. He did not
 
 SOME READJUSTMENTS 227 
 
 attempt to offer explanations or excuses. He declared 
 that he could n't do that. It would be useless. But 
 he was all contrition, all shame in his supplication for 
 mercy and forgiveness. And in the end he begged, 
 would she not take back his ring and wear it? 
 
 Sister Sue answered immediately. Her note was not 
 beautiful. It contained no heroics and no thrills. 
 Sister Sue was not a fiction writer. It contained no 
 bemoanings, no reproaches. It was cheerful, matter 
 of fact, and cordially interested in plans for his and 
 May's happiness. It said, no, thank you, she did not 
 care to wear the ring again, and she was very glad 
 the true state of affairs had been found out before it 
 was too late. It said, also, that there was no reason 
 why he and May should not be married as soon as 
 May's simple trousseau could be made ready, and 
 that he need feel no hesitation in coming to the house 
 with the old freedom and informality, and that she 
 really hoped he would come soon. 
 
 And she signed herself, "Sister Sue." 
 
 And Sister Sue did hope he would come soon. She 
 longed to get over the awkwardness of that first meet- 
 ing. After that it would be easier, she knew. 
 
 She was glad, therefore, when two days later Delia 
 told her that Mr. Kent was in the living-room and 
 wanted to see her. She went down at once. She gave 
 him a cordial hand and smiled straight into his eyes, 
 and she promptly hushed the rush of words on his 
 lips. After a very little while she took him out on to 
 the veranda where May was waiting; then she left 
 them with the cheery suggestion that they'd better
 
 228 SISTER SUE 
 
 be making their plans or the summer would be gone 
 before they knew it. 
 
 After all, it proved to be even less difficult than 
 Sister Sue had feared. Matters at home seemed 
 hardly to change at all except that it was May now, 
 instead of herself, that spent the evenings on the ve- 
 randa with Martin Kent. The daytime hours May 
 had always spent with him, anyway. True, the ex- 
 planations to her father and Gordon were not easy, 
 and certain other words had to be given out in various 
 quarters. These, too, were not easy. As for Gilmore- 
 ville, Sister Sue simplified matters there by saying to 
 Mrs. Preston: "My sister May and Mr. Kent are 
 going to be married in September. If any person 
 says to you that they supposed it was I who was to 
 marry Mr. Kent, do you suppose you could answer 
 very lightly, something like this: 'Sister Sue the 
 one? Oh, no, it's May. Oh, there was a fancied some- 
 thing once perhaps between the other two 
 but that's all over now. May is the one'; could you 
 do that, Mrs. Preston?" 
 
 " Could I? " The little old lady threw a keen glance 
 into Sister Sue's face. "You just wait and see. An* 
 I'm thinkin' I'd be addin' that whatever it was be- 
 tween Martin Kent an' Sister Sue, it did n't never 
 come to much, I guessed, or else Sister Sue would n't 
 be so happy an' gay over fixin' up her sister to marry 
 him." 
 
 "I thought I could trust you," laughed Sister Sue 
 as she turned away. 
 
 And she could, as Mrs. Preston soon proved. For
 
 SOME READJUSTMENTS *29 
 
 it was in a measure true, as Gordon had once asserted, 
 that whatever Granny Preston knew the whole town 
 knew, but it was also true that the town knew only 
 what Granny Preston chose to tell it. And in this 
 particular case Granny Preston's words were chosen 
 with great care and discrimination. 
 
 After all, even in Gilmoreville, it was only a nine 
 days' wonder, and long before the day set for the 
 wedding Sister Sue knew that she had ceased to be 
 the cynosure of every curious eye the minute she 
 appeared on the street. 
 
 Even had it been otherwise, however, Sister Sue 
 was much too busy to pay attention to what Gilmore- 
 ville was thinking or saying, for Sister Sue was trying 
 to create a trousseau attractive enough to suit May's 
 particular taste and inexpensive enough to be encom- 
 passed by the slender funds at her command. And 
 it was no small problem. But it was not the first 
 struggle Sister Sue had had with "clothes." From 
 the days of their affluence, when the tailors and dress- 
 makers and unlimited credit at the shops had been 
 a matter of course, they had brought with them to 
 Gilmoreville a well-filled wardrobe which, by the 
 skill Sister Sue had developed in remodeling, had 
 served them so well that few garments had had to be 
 bought thus far. But the supply was getting low 
 now. There were, however, two or three evening 
 dresses and a somewhat faded pink challis, from 
 which, with a few packages of dye, some new patterns, 
 and Mrs. Preston's help, Sister Sue had evolved three 
 very pretty little frocks which found a measure of ap-
 
 230 SISTER SUE 
 
 proval even in May's critical eyes. This left most of 
 the money at Sister Sue's command to go for shoes 
 and gloves and hats, and, by going without the new 
 suit she had planned for herself, she was enabled to 
 provide a trousseau that May said would "pass" 
 albeit she said it with so obvious a discontent that 
 Sister Sue opened her lips as if she had something she 
 wanted very much to say. But she did not say it. 
 There were a good many times these days that Sister 
 Sue was opening her lips and then not saying it. 
 
 The wedding took place on the third day of Sep- 
 tember. It was a very simple but a very pretty one. 
 Beth Henderson came on to be bridesmaid, and two 
 or three other Boston friends came also. It was said 
 at the wedding that Sister Sue looked fully as radiantly 
 happy as the bride. And perhaps she did. Sister Sue 
 understood very well that she could n't expect Granny 
 Preston to do all her fighting for her. And Sister Sue 
 particularly wanted to look happy at that wedding. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Martin Kent left on the afternoon 
 train for a brief honeymoon trip, after which they 
 were to go to Boston to live. Three days after the 
 wedding Gordon left for college. He told Sister Sue 
 that she was a brick to let him go, and that he was go- 
 ing to help oh, he was going to help a whole lot, 
 waiting on tables, shoveling paths, anything. But 
 surely something. 
 
 When he had gone Sister Sue sat down and drew 
 a long breath; but she did not sit long; her father 
 called her, and said he had lost his shears and could 
 not find them anywhere. He thought perhaps Sister
 
 SOME READJUSTMENTS 231 
 
 Sue could find them for him. Sister Sue then got up 
 quietly and went to look for the shears. There were 
 other things, too, which her father had lost, and some 
 things which he had found and cut which he should 
 not have found and cut. Two buttons were off his 
 coat, too, and his linen looked shabby. In fact, very 
 plainly the old gentleman showed that the thought- 
 ful and loving care usually bestowed upon him must 
 have been absent for some weeks past. 
 
 " My ! But I guess we Ve got to be tended to now," 
 said Sister Sue brightly as she rummaged her work- 
 basket for two black coat buttons. "But never mind, 
 dearie. They're all gone now, and there's just our 
 two selves here." 
 
 Gradually, as September passed, Sister Sue got 
 back "into the harness," as she expressed it. Her 
 pupils came and she welcomed them eagerly. Sister 
 Sue was counting her money very carefully these days, 
 and every new dollar helped. The wedding and the 
 first payment toward Gordon's college expenses had 
 made no small hole in Sister Sue's savings and she 
 was beginning to worry a little about the future. 
 If they should have a big doctor's bill! And there 
 was the fuel for the furnace! And if Gordon was 
 to be put through college nobody knew how much 
 would have to be paid out for him. 
 
 With all this, and more, in mind, Sister Sue began 
 to economize in her household matters even more 
 rigorously than ever. Gordon and May being gone, 
 she told herself she could do it. There were now only 
 her father and herself to feed, besides Delia, and
 
 232 SISTER SUE 
 
 they could have very simple food, the cheaper cuts 
 of meat, and no rich pies or cake. She should not go 
 out much, so she would need but little in the way of 
 clothing. What she had, indeed, with careful mend- 
 ing and managing, would probably do very nicely for 
 the present. She wished she could let Delia go, but 
 that was hardly possible not if she kept her pupils, 
 and certainly to let her pupils go would be the height 
 of folly. She could close part of the house. That 
 would be a good idea, and very promptly she put it 
 into effect. By moving the piano into the living- 
 room, and changing her own bedroom to the little 
 chamber next her father's, she was enabled to shut 
 up the greater part of the rambling old house, which 
 left much less to heat and care for. She settled down 
 then for the winter. When the early December snows 
 came and piled high around the doors and windows, 
 she wrote May and Gordon that she was as snug as 
 a bug in a rug. She said nothing about the gloomy, 
 half-closed house, the mended suit, and the simple 
 meals, however. 
 
 It was not an easy winter. The snow came early 
 and stayed late. It drifted deep through the road- 
 ways, and almost defied Mr. Preston to keep the 
 paths open for the children coming to their lessons. 
 Sister Sue went out but little. Twice her father fell 
 sick with severe colds, and once Delia was shut up in 
 her room for a week with a bad throat. Sister Sue 
 thought her days were full before, but she soon learned 
 there is nothing quite so elastic as a busy day to 
 encompass yet other tasks.
 
 SOME READJUSTMENTS 233 
 
 From May came glowing letters telling of a whirl 
 of gayety among new friends and old. Running 
 through them was only one thread of disappoint- 
 ment. Martin's new book, "The Unknown High- 
 way," was somehow not seeming to "catch on." The 
 advance sales had been fair, but there were almost 
 no re-orders, and the booksellers reported overloaded 
 shelves with few sales after the first spurt. More- 
 over, the reviews had not been at all satisfactory, and 
 the general report was that people did not like the 
 book. May said that that was absurd ! That she just 
 loved the book, and so did all the rest of their friends 
 that she had asked about it. Anyhow, they said so. 
 
 From Gordon, also, came glowing letters telling of 
 gay times and winter sports. At the bottom of al- 
 most every letter he said he was awfully sorry, but 
 he had n't yet found a decent job at waiting on 
 tables. But it was coming oh, it was coming. Once 
 he wrote that he had tried shoveling, but it made his 
 arms so lame that he was unfitted for study the next 
 day, and of course he knew Sister Sue would n't want 
 him to do that! In the meantime he was awfully 
 sorry, but he was afraid he would have to ask for a 
 little more money if Sister Sue could spare it. 
 
 And of course Sister Sue spared it. 
 
 To Sister Sue, as the winter passed, the days came 
 to be one endless round of dreariness and monotony. 
 Sometimes she cried. Sometimes in the privacy of 
 her own room she stormed hotly at the cruel turn 
 the Fates had played her though always she was 
 ashamed of this, and afterwards she usually would do
 
 234 SISTER SUE 
 
 contrite penance by some special tenderness shown 
 her father. Sometimes to Mrs. Preston she would say 
 that the pan of potatoes she was peeling did n't 
 seem to lower much notwithstanding her long labors. 
 But she said this, as both knew, merely to get the 
 comfort of Mrs. Preston's swift response: 
 
 "Never mind. Petaters is petaters, an' 'way ahead 
 o' turkey when ye come right down ter bein' neces- 
 sary!" 
 
 Sister Sue still fled to her piano when time per- 
 mitted, for rest and refreshment of soul. But she 
 never lay awake nights now, visioning herself as bow- 
 ing to entranced multitudes, though still in her dreams 
 sometimes she heard the clamorous call of "Encore! 
 Encore! Susanna Gilmore! Encore! Encore!"
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 ONE WEEK IN JUNE 
 
 FROM the south came warm breezes and gentle 
 rains. Higher and higher in the heavens rolled the 
 sun. The huge drifts disappeared and were not. Here 
 and there a bit of green flashed back smile for smile. 
 Little brown, brave-hearted buds swelled to bursting 
 with the promise of good things to come. 
 
 And it was spring. 
 
 Gilmoreville said never had they known such a 
 winter. Never did they want to see its like again, 
 and never had spring looked so good to them. All 
 of which Sister Sue in the old Gilmore homestead 
 echoed quite fervently. 
 
 And spring did, indeed, bring to Sister Sue a most 
 welcome respite from many things. There were no 
 more frozen water-pipes; no more shivering morn- 
 ings with the fire almost out; no more blizzards that 
 threatened to cut them off from all mankind. There 
 was now, instead, the never-failing interest for John 
 Gilmore in the garden which gave the shears (and 
 Sister Sue) a rest. There were sunshine, soft air, 
 singing birds, and the wonderful marvel that spring 
 always is after winter. 
 
 Sister Sue drew a long breath, shook off the leth- 
 argy that seemed to have benumbed her senses for 
 months past, gloried in summer frocks and low shoes 
 (even though they were a bit old and shabby), and
 
 236 SISTER SUE 
 
 said she was glad she was living, anyway. Such is the 
 magic of spring after winter. 
 
 May wrote that she was coming home in June. 
 She was n't a bit well, she said, and she presumed 
 very likely the country air would be good for her. 
 Martin thought so. The baby was coming in Octo- 
 ber, she said. She should n't come back to town, of 
 course, until after that. Martin would come with her 
 to Gilmoreville, but he was n't planning to stay at all. 
 He had a wonderful chance to go on a three months' 
 camping trip down in Maine. And he was going. 
 He ought to get some good copy, he said. Anyhow, he 
 needed the trip to freshen up. He'd had a hard win- 
 ter. But he would not be in Gilmoreville. Sister Sue 
 need n't plan for him, therefore, but she might plan 
 for herself to be there in June and to remain until after 
 October, anyway. And she was her affectionate sister 
 May. 
 
 Sister Sue read this letter and bit her lips and sat 
 thinking for some time. She had just reached the 
 decision that, yes, she would write her sister May 
 that she might come, when, upon a second reading of 
 the letter, she discovered that this would be an un- 
 necessary formality. May had already written that 
 she was coming. 
 
 From Gordon that week came a letter saying that 
 some friends had asked him to go with them on a 
 motor trip through Canada, and if she did n't mind 
 he guessed he'd go. He 'd come home, of course, first. 
 He 'd have to do that, anyway, for some new clothes. 
 His old clothes were in an awful shape. Could he have
 
 ONE WEEK IN JUNE 237 
 
 some new ones, somehow? Of course, being on a 
 motor trip, he would n't need so many as he would 
 for for a trip to Palm Beach, say but he 'd 
 simply got to have something. 
 
 And Sister Sue wrote back promptly that he could, 
 of course he could. He would have to have what 
 was necessary, certainly. Then she went upstairs to 
 the attic and took out the despised old challis that 
 had been discarded as quite impossible when May's 
 trousseau had been planned. 
 
 "I could dye it, I think," mused Sister Sue, eyeing 
 it critically. Then she gathered it into her arms and 
 carried it downstairs. 
 
 It was one evening early in June, before either Gor- 
 don or May had arrived, that Sister Sue, sitting alone 
 on the veranda, heard a quick foot coming up the 
 walk. She turned to see Donald Kendall coming up 
 the steps. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Kendall, I did not know you were in 
 town!" she exclaimed, getting at once to her feet. 
 
 "I was n't till four o'clock to-day. Thank you, 
 I will sit down," he said, accepting a chair at the 
 invitation of her hand. 
 
 He sat down. Sister Sue waited for him to speak, 
 but as he still remained silent, she hazarded: 
 
 "Is your mother well?" 
 
 "Eh? What? Oh, I beg pardon. Yes, quite well. 
 Thank you," he added, plainly as an afterthought. 
 
 There was another silence. In her corner Sister Sue 
 smiled quietly. She opened her lips once as if to 
 speak, but she closed them again with no word said.
 
 238 SISTER SUE 
 
 After a time the man stirred restlessly. 
 
 "You don't mind if I smoke?" he questioned. 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 "Thanks." 
 
 Another silence a longer one. The man had 
 something to do now. 
 
 He stayed, perhaps, half an hour. He talked a 
 little a very little. Sister Sue, still smiling in her 
 corner, met him halfway, cordially, but inasmuch as 
 the most of the subjects introduced were discussed by 
 him with a short "yes" or "no," or, "I don't know," 
 she did not attempt any lengthy discussion. 
 
 It was not until he rose abruptly to go that she 
 learned the real intent of his visit. 
 
 "Miss Gilmore, I suppose I was well er 
 perhaps a bit rude to you on that last morning be- 
 fore I went away after Old Home Day. I 'm sorry." 
 His lips snapped tight shut with the irritability of a 
 man performing an annoying duty. Then, still irri- 
 tably, he said: "Miss Gilmore, I expect to be around 
 here about a week. If quite convenient to you I'll 
 be over here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock 
 with my violin. That is, I mean, may I ? " he amended, 
 with the impatience of one not accustomed to asking 
 favors. 
 
 Sister Sue laughed merrily. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Mr. Kendall, but you may n't, not at 
 nine o'clock," she smiled. "I have pupils all the 
 morning and most of the afternoon, but I'll be glad 
 to have you come in the evening, as early as seven, 
 if you like."
 
 ONE WEEK IN JUNE 
 
 "Thanks. I'll be here." 
 
 The next moment Sister Sue was alone, laughing 
 all by herself in the dark, in the vine-shaded corner of 
 the veranda. 
 
 Promptly at seven the next evening Donald Ken- 
 Mall appeared with his violin and his music. And 
 promptly at seven every evening for the next week he 
 did likewise, to say nothing of several other times 
 during the day when her pupils were not expected. 
 
 And when the week was over and he was gone. 
 Sister Sue declared to herself that it was the happiest 
 seven days she had known since she had come to 
 Gilmoreville. To have lived again, even if for only 
 one short week, in the atmosphere of music that was 
 music, was something to hold dear to one's heart; 
 something that would help to tide one over many 
 a dreary day when music was only Johnny Smith's 
 scales or Ruth Reynolds's five-finger exercises; some- 
 thing to think of and to live over and over again 
 in memory. And it would help through so many 
 things. 
 
 Sister Sue was so glad afterwards that she had had 
 that blessed week of joy, for it did help through so 
 many, many things and she had so sorely needed it, 
 for if the winter had been a hard one, the summer 
 that followed was even harder, though in quite a dif- 
 ferent way.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE LURE OF A GOLDEN CURL 
 
 MRS. MARTIN KENT'S baby came early in October. 
 It was a little girl. May named her "Martia." She 
 said it was the nearest she could come to "Mar- 
 tin." They had wanted a boy. They had planned to 
 call him after his father, and she was disappointed to 
 have it turn out to be a girl, after all their plans. 
 
 May was really quite fretful about it. But that 
 was nothing new. May had been fretful all summer. 
 She had been sick and nervous and very difficult to 
 please ever since she came, as Sister Sue found out. 
 She had wanted all of Sister Sue's attention, but she 
 had known that the pupils must come first. She did, 
 however, grudge the attention Sister Sue bestowed 
 upon their father. She said she did n't see why Sister 
 Sue did it, either. She could have her father all the 
 time, while she could have her, her only sister, and a 
 poor, sick, ailing sister, at that, only these few short 
 months this summer. 
 
 As for May's sharing any attention with her father, 
 that was quite out of the question. She told Sister 
 Sue that her father made her as nervous as a witch, 
 and as for trying to be with him now she could n't, 
 and she should n't. Not one of the least of Sister 
 Sue's problems that summer, therefore, was to pay 
 all of her spare attention to her father, and all of her 
 spare attention to May, and at the same time always 
 to keep the two separate and apart from one another.
 
 THE LURE OF A GOLDEN CURL 241 
 
 It was not strange, then, perhaps, that it was a 
 good big breath of relief that Sister Sue drew when, 
 in November, Martin Kent came and took his wife 
 and young daughter back to Boston. 
 
 Gordon had not come home at all from his Cana- 
 dian motor trip, but had gone directly to college. He 
 had needed money, of course, and Sister Sue had 
 sent him a goodly sum. He had written her that she 
 was a peach. Yes, she was ! And he declared that he 
 was going to make them all proud of him. He had 
 said, too, that this year he was sure he was very 
 sure that he could find that table-waiting to do 
 or something. 
 
 Sister Sue had answered back that it would help 
 a lot of course, if he could find something of 
 the sort to do, but that the main thing, after all, was 
 that he should do well in his studies, graduate with 
 honors, and then make something really worth while 
 of his life; make them, indeed, proud of him. She said 
 then something else, something that, if Gordon could 
 have known, or if he had had the vision to under- 
 stand, covered a big heartache between the lines. 
 
 "I do want you to succeed, dearie," she wrote. 
 "Even May has given up her story- writing now, and 
 you know what Sister Sue has come to." 
 
 This was in September. 
 
 In December, when Sister Sue and her father were 
 again alone in the old house, came the unexpected 
 from Gordon. Sister Sue had to read the letter twice 
 before she got its full meaning. Then from the in- 
 coherent, rhapsodic tangle of blue eyes, golden hair.
 
 242 SISTER SUE 
 
 moonlight, darlings, and sweethearts, she unraveled 
 this information: 
 
 He was going to leave college. He had fallen in 
 love. The dearest girl in all the world had promised 
 to be his wife. She was the most beautiful creature 
 Sister Sue had ever seen, with blue eyes and golden 
 hair, and a voice that was like the voice of an angel 
 liquid purity and melted moonlight were rasping 
 noises beside it. Her name was Miss Mabel Billings. 
 
 And now, as he had said in the first place, he should 
 give up college. He would have to, of course. He 
 would have to go to work to support his wife, of 
 course. And already he had found a job, a splendid 
 opening. Mabel's father was going to take him into 
 the store (he kept a grocery-store a big one right 
 there in town). He was to have fifteen dollars a week 
 at the start, with the promise of rapid advancement 
 and a place in the firm later, all owing, of course, to 
 the fact that he was to be the son-in-law of "the old 
 man." Not every one in the store, of course, could 
 have such a chance. 
 
 Twice Sister Sue read this letter; then, in the ter- 
 ror and dismay of the realization of its meaning, 
 she sat down at once and answered it without plan- 
 ning in the least what to say. As a result the terror 
 and dismay and absolute horror in her heart were all 
 on the written sheets that were dispatched by return 
 mail to the lovesick youth who had but a short 
 twenty-four hours before poured out his heart to her. 
 
 Sister Sue had received his letter, but, oh, did he 
 understand what he was doing? Did he realize what
 
 THE LURE OF A GOLDEN CURL 243 
 
 it might mean to be tied all his life to a Billings who 
 kept a grocery-store? And to be in the grocery-store, 
 too! Was he sure he would like that? When he had 
 had such dreams? And was he sure that the young 
 woman would make him happy? Golden hair and 
 melted moonlight were all very well, of course. But 
 hair turned gray and moons did n't always shine. 
 And, oh, was he sure, sure, SURE that this Mabel per- 
 son was going to satisfy all his deeper feelings? Why! 
 He was nothing but a boy ! Not yet twenty-one. And 
 to give up college now! And all his hopes and am- 
 bitions! Oh, he did not, she was sure he did not, 
 realize in the least what he was doing. 
 
 By return mail, then, to Sister Sue came back his 
 answer. And this letter she needed to read but once 
 before getting its meaning and realizing her mis- 
 take. It was short, cold, and not at all incoherent. 
 It was also plainly grieved, and hurt, and angry. 
 
 Gordon had received her letter. He was sorry, he 
 was sure, if he had displeased his sister Sue. But a 
 man must marry to suit himself. She must realize 
 that. He was aware, of course, that he was not yet 
 twenty-one, but he had hoped to have her consent 
 to his marriage. He proposed to earn his own living 
 from now on, anyway. A grocery business might not 
 suit persons with snobbish tastes, but it was emi- 
 nently respectable, and suited him perfectly. As for 
 Miss Billings and her satisfying his deeper feelings, 
 his only doubt in regard to that matter was lest 
 he be unworthy of her. And he begged to inform 
 his sister Sue that he did emphatically understand
 
 244 SISTER SUE 
 
 and realize what he was doing. She need not fear. 
 He would see that they never annoyed her with their 
 presence. If she would kindly send him, then, what 
 few belongings he had in the house. 
 
 And he signed himself, "Very truly yours, Gordon 
 Halstead Gilmore." 
 
 Sister Sue hastened to set aright her mistake. As 
 if she were going to let anything come between her 
 and Gordon! He might marry all the Billingses 
 and grocery-stores in Christendom he was still her 
 brother and she guessed she was not going to send him 
 "his belongings." Not trouble her with their pres- 
 ence! Indeed! As if she were going to let that boy 
 marry a girl she did not know! She should have her 
 up at once, of course, and get acquainted with her. 
 And if Gordon still insisted on marrying her and 
 she proved to be making him unhappy, surely then 
 he would need his sister Sue! As if she were going to 
 do anything to estrange that boy now! 
 
 And Sister Sue sat down and wrote her letter. 
 
 She said, nonsense, and that it was absurd, and that 
 he took her altogether wrongly. It was her desire to 
 have him make sure that he cared very much for 
 Miss Billings before he took the irremediable step of 
 marrying her. And she said that as long as he was 
 so sure he did care for her very much, it was all right, 
 and he had her congratulations and her best wishes. 
 And, of course, she wanted to see and know her future 
 sister-in-law, so would he not please bring her up to 
 the old home for a real country Christmas and please 
 stay a few days? If he would himself give her Miss
 
 THE LURE OF A GOLDEN CURL 245 
 
 Billings's address she would write to the young lady 
 herself. 
 
 And she signed herself, "Your affectionate Sister 
 Sue." 
 
 But she shivered a little as she sealed the letter 
 after reading it over twice to make sure there was 
 nothing more she could add, and she did not breathe 
 really freely till his reply was in her hands. She took 
 a long breath then, for Gordon was very glad he had 
 been mistaken in the tone of his sister Sue's other 
 letter and he should be pleased to bring Miss Billings 
 up for a real country Christmas, thank you, and he 
 enclosed her address therewith. 
 
 In due time from Miss Billings herself came a 
 violet-scented pink note, written with obvious care in 
 forming each letter, saying that she would be pleased 
 to accept Miss Gilmore's kind invitation to Christ- 
 mas, and she was "Yours very respectfully, Miss 
 Mabel Billings." 
 
 Sister Sue was somewhat prepared, therefore, to 
 find her brother's fiancee just what she did find her to 
 be, an exceedingly pretty, pleasant young girl, a little 
 timid, anxious to please, but obviously quite unused to 
 the sort of society Gordon had been accustomed to. 
 
 That evening, after the guest had retired to her 
 room, Gordon told his sister Sue that she would find 
 Mabel a child of nature and quite unspoiled by the 
 world. 
 
 And Sister Sue said yes, she did appear to be that. 
 
 The Christmas visit was not so hopeless, after all. 
 As the first shyness wore off, Miss Mabel was not so
 
 246 SISTER SUE 
 
 awkward nor so distressed over her efforts to do 
 things just properly. And she became more natural. 
 Her really good qualities displayed themselves. She 
 was sweet-tempered, kind-hearted, and sincerely 
 anxious to be of service. And she was not coarse. 
 Sister Sue, noting all this, told herself that, after all, 
 time and good associations might soften the girl's de- 
 fects, and certainly her virtues were of the sort that 
 made for smoothness in running the machinery of 
 daily living. That she was not inherently coarse 
 would certainly make it easier for her to acquire the 
 little niceties and refinements that Sister Sue feared 
 Gordon would miss some day if she did not ac- 
 quire them. One thing was surely certain, they were 
 very much in love with each other, and the fact that 
 Gordon was willing to work, and work hard, in order 
 to marry, might be not without a salutary effect, so 
 far as character-building was concerned. 
 
 It was with an easier mind, therefore, than she had 
 had when she greeted them, that Sister Sue said 
 good-bye to the pair, though after they were gone and 
 she was alone again with her father, her heart mis- 
 gave her a little, and she drew a long sigh of regret 
 for the high aspirations and ambitions for Gordon 
 which she now knew she could no longer cherish, and 
 all because of the lure of a golden curl and a sparkling 
 eye. For whatever else the visit of Miss Mabel Bil- 
 lings had taught her, it had certainly convinced her 
 that Gordon not only understood very well what he 
 was doing, but was determined to do it. He had told 
 Sister Sue the wedding would be in June.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A BROKEN ARM 
 
 THE winter passed and spring came again. The win- 
 ter had been less severe this time, and particularly for 
 Sister Sue it had not been so arduous. There were 
 not so many shivering mornings with the fire out, nor 
 quite so many frozen water-pipes. The family had 
 been measurably well, and the pupils had been more 
 regular in attendance. Expenses had not been so 
 heavy and no checks had to be sent to Gordon. In- 
 deed, Sister Sue wrote to May that she was making 
 money, was growing rich, so rich that she was going 
 to invest in a new spring suit. 
 
 When June came, bringing Gordon's wedding, she 
 went into an even deeper extravagance and bought 
 a brand-new pretty little frock for the occasion, 
 "neither dyed, nor mended, nor turned inside out," 
 she wrote May. But, what was still more thrilling 
 to Sister Sue, she went to the wedding, venturing to 
 leave her father to the Prestons' care for three brief 
 days. It was the first time for four years that she had 
 been away from home overnight, and she told May 
 at the wedding that the smoke of the engine was like 
 the perfume of Araby to her nostrils, and that even 
 the railroad tracks looked good to her, which only 
 made May stare and exclaim, "Why, how funny! 
 I hate that cindery, sooty railroad smoke!" But 
 then May had been away a good many nights during
 
 248 SISTER SUE 
 
 the last four years. That might have made some 
 difference. 
 
 It was a very pretty wedding. Most weddings are. 
 It would be a sorry thing, indeed, that could take 
 away all the beauty of a wedding: beauty with its 
 charm of youth, lights, flowers, music, radiant faces, 
 and holiday garments. Miss Mabel Billings, in her 
 white satin and tulle, was a picture of loveliness, and 
 her shy embarrassment rendered her all the more 
 appealing. Gordon was a handsome and a beatifi- 
 cally happy-looking bridegroom. The guests repre- 
 sented the usual mixture of smiling, or teary-eyed, 
 relatives, some rather noisy schoolmates on the look- 
 out for a chance to play pranks, and a few intimate 
 friends of the family. The father and mother of the 
 bride, Sister Sue owned to herself, she genuinely 
 liked. They were simple, kindly, and were possessed 
 very evidently of a generous fund of good common 
 sense. Sister Sue went home reflecting that, while 
 keeping a grocery-store might not bring to Gordon 
 a Ph.D. or even an A.B., yet, after all, grocery-stores 
 occupied a place of no mean value in the scheme of 
 daily living, and that it was just as necessary to have 
 potatoes to peel as it was to peel them sometimes. 
 
 May had told Sister Sue at the wedding that she 
 should not be up to Gilmoreville till August this 
 year. Then she and the baby and Martin would 
 come for a few weeks. And again was Sister Sue con- 
 scious that her assent to the proposition would be 
 merely an unnecessary formality it had been a 
 statement of fact, not a request for a favor. She
 
 A BROKEN ARM 249 
 
 listened, therefore, with a quiet smile, while May went 
 on to explain that the first month of their summer 
 holiday was to be spent at the North Shore visiting 
 friends. 
 
 It was soon after returning from the wedding that 
 Sister Sue's daily paper carried the information that 
 the great violinist, Donald Kendall, had gone down 
 a twenty-foot embankment in an automobile. He 
 had come out of the accident with multiple cuts and 
 bruises and a badly broken right arm. It would be 
 some time before he could play the violin again, the 
 report said. 
 
 Two weeks later Sister Sue's telephone bell rang 
 at nine o'clock one morning. 
 
 Sister Sue heard this, then, over the wire, spoken 
 in Mrs. Kendall's voice: 
 
 "Is this Sister er is this Miss Gilmore?" 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Kendall." 
 
 "Will will you be so good, please, as to come 
 right over? My son wants to see you." It was the 
 fretful voice of a woman who has been harassed to 
 the breaking point of temper and patience. 
 
 Sister Sue smiled. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Mrs. Kendall, but I can't just now. 
 I have a pupil." 
 
 "But, Sister Sue, can't you excuse her, or him, or 
 whatever it is, for this once? My son has broken his 
 arm, you know. Really, he's in a dreadful state." 
 
 "Yes, I know. I heard that he was injured and 
 that he came home yesterday. I'm so sorry. How 
 is he?"
 
 250 SISTER SUE 
 
 " I 've just told you, he 's in a dreadful state." Mrs. 
 Kendall's voice was waxing more and more impatient. 
 "I can't do a thing with him, really, if you don't 
 come. Can't you dismiss that pupil this once? 
 You're the only thing he's been willing at all to have. 
 He has n't had a mouthful of breakfast." 
 
 Sister Sue's merry laugh went over the wire. 
 
 "And does he want me for breakfast, Mrs. Ken- 
 dall?" she chuckled; then with quiet seriousness, she 
 added: "Indeed, Mrs. Kendall, I'm very sorry, and 
 I '11 be glad to do anything I can. I have an hour from 
 eleven till twelve and I '11 run over then. I can't come 
 before. Indeed, I can't. I'm sorry. But I'll be over 
 soon after eleven." 
 
 "W-well, if that is the best you can do," accepted 
 Mrs. Kendall grudgingly. "Er thank you," she 
 added, as an unwilling afterthought. 
 
 Sister Sue was still smiling as she turned away 
 from the telephone, and for some reason the smile 
 continued in her eyes if not on her lips all the rest of 
 the morning. 
 
 Just after eleven she went through the garden gate 
 and up the side walk to the Kendalls' veranda. Before 
 she could ring the bell Mrs. Kendall met her at the 
 door. 
 
 "Thank Heaven, you're here! I thought 't would 
 never come eleven o'clock." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I'm here," smiled the girl. "But, Mrs. 
 Kendall, what what is it? What do you want me 
 to do?" 
 
 Mrs. Kendall threw up her hands.
 
 A BROKEN ARM 251 
 
 "Heaven knows, child! I don't! I don't believe 
 even my son himself does. He 's restless, and and, 
 I'm afraid, irritable. He's always been perfectly 
 well and strong, and he does n't know how to be 
 sick. He is n't sick now." 
 
 "Is it more than just the broken arm?" 
 
 "Nothing serious. Only a few cuts and scratches. 
 His head is still tied up with plasters. But his arm 
 it was a bad break. The doctor says it will be weeks 
 now before he can use it. He can't play, you know, 
 and always before he 's been able to vent his feelings 
 on the violin just as you do on the piano. Your 
 sister said you did." Mrs. Kendall smiled faintly. 
 
 " Yes, I know," smiled Sister Sue in her turn. "But, 
 Mrs. Kendall, he will be all right, in time?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. If he does n't fret himself to death in 
 the meantime, but " 
 
 " When are you two women going to get done with 
 your talking?" demanded an irate masculine voice 
 from the library doorway down the hall. "How do 
 you do, Miss Gilmore ! I beg your pardon, of course, 
 but Mother said you were coming to see me" 
 
 "Donald!" reprimanded Mrs. Kendall with a de- 
 spairing "you see!" look toward the girl. 
 
 "And I am coming to see you," nodded Sister Sue, 
 laughing a little as she came forward, "though I 
 understand you are anything but pleasant company 
 just now." 
 
 "Yes, I know I am a beast," admitted the man 
 cheerfully. "Come into the music-room; I want you 
 to play for me."
 
 252 SISTER SUE 
 
 "For you!" Sister Sue bit her lips the minute the 
 words were out. She had not meant to put it quite 
 like that. But she had her fears for nothing. The 
 man did not take it as she had thought he would. 
 
 "Yes. You take it out on the piano, don't you, 
 when things go wrong?" 
 
 "Why, y-yes," laughed Sister Sue. "And when 
 they go right, too." 
 
 "Humph!" grunted the man. "Well, I don't need 
 that kind just now. But I do need the other. Now, 
 sit down, please, and play." 
 
 "As /feel?" 
 
 "No! As / do," he snapped. 
 
 Her eyes began to twinkle, but he kept on speak- 
 ing with no abatement of irritability. "I'm going to 
 grumble and growl all I want to. I I'll try not to 
 swear. But I want to let it out for once and as I 
 talk, you play. Understand? And let me tell you 
 right now you '11 have to do some lively playing if 
 you're going to fitly express what I say." 
 
 Sister Sue laughed joyously and brought her hands 
 together in a soft clap. More than anything else in 
 the world, perhaps, Sister Sue loved to improvise. 
 
 " I can do it ! I can do it ! Oh, I know I can do it ! " 
 she cried, running to the piano and seating herself. 
 " Ready. Begin!" she commanded, letting her hands 
 rest lightly on the keys. 
 
 And he did begin, and he kept on. He roared - 
 and scolded and snapped and snarled and 
 bitterly assailed a cruel Fate that had played him the 
 beastly trick. The car, the road, the chauffeur, the
 
 A BROKEN ARM 253 
 
 slipping mud, the steep embankment, the doctors, 
 nurses, medicine, the smells and sights and sounds 
 of the past three detestable weeks they were all 
 there. And in Sister Sue's playing they were all there, 
 too. The louder he talked the louder she played; the 
 faster flew his tongue the faster flew her fingers, until 
 they were both in gales of laughter and with a 
 rippling run and a crashing chord Sister Sue brought 
 the performance to a triumphant end. 
 
 "Well! Have you two gone crazy?" Mrs. Kendall 
 stood in the doorway. 
 
 Her son drew a deep breath. 
 
 "No, but I was headed in that direction and Miss 
 Gilmore saved me. I 'm sane now for a while, any- 
 way. My ! But that felt good ! " he sighed satisfiedly. 
 
 "I'm glad, I'm sure, if I have been of any assist- 
 ance," smiled Sister Sue demurely. Then, glancing 
 at her watch, she got to her feet, saying: "I'll have to 
 go now, I'm afraid." 
 
 "But you'll come again?" begged the man. 
 
 "Of course she'll come again, whenever you want 
 her," spoke up the relieved mother before Sister Sue 
 could answer. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I'll come again when I have the 
 time." Sister Sue was still smiling, though the em- 
 phasis of her amended sentence was unmistakable. 
 
 And she did come again. She came many times 
 during the next month, and when the bandages and 
 plasters ceased to decorate Donald Kendall's head 
 and face, he crossed the yard to Sister Sue's garden 
 gate and went to see her. They played checkers, chess,
 
 254 SISTER SUE 
 
 and cribbage together. They read together, and not 
 infrequently would Sister Sue sit again at the piano 
 and let him vent his mind through her own finger- 
 tips. And when the arm was out of the sling and the 
 violin could be held again in position and the bow 
 drawn, it was Sister Sue who played the piano for 
 that first song of rejoicing triumphantly, yet very 
 carefully played over the now no longer silent bow. 
 
 It was August by that time, and Mr. and Mrs. 
 Martin Kent and little Martia soon arrived. Donald 
 Kendall did not come to the house after that, and the 
 necessity for Sister Sue's going to his had long since 
 passed, so now the two did n't see so much of each 
 other. Before long, too, Donald Kendall left town. 
 Mrs. Kendall, however, for a long time did not cease 
 to talk of what a wonderful thing Sister Sue had been 
 able to do for her son, and they did not know what 
 they should have done without her. 
 
 It was just as well, though, perhaps, that Donald 
 Kendall went when he did, so far as concerned any 
 further benefit from Sister Sue's ministrations, for 
 after the Kents came, Sister Sue had little time that 
 she could call her own. Martia was a very exacting 
 child. She "took" to Sister Sue at once, and May 
 said she was so glad, for she herself needed a rest, and 
 she could take a real rest, she declared, whenever 
 Sister Sue had the baby, for then she did n't worry at 
 all. 
 
 Late in August Gordon and his wife came up for a 
 week, but May did not care for her new sister-in-law 
 and showed it very plainly, which did not contribute
 
 A BROKEN ARM 255 
 
 to the happiness of either guests or hostess. May was 
 ironical and sarcastic and bored and sulky, and Gor- 
 don annoyed and angry. Poor little Mabel, obviously 
 ignorant as to the cause of it all, chatted away 
 cheerily to each one, saying how perfectly grand it 
 was to be there all together and what a grand plan 
 it was, anyway! Among them all, Sister Sue's tact 
 and patience were tried to the utmost, and perhaps 
 no one's sigh was quite so relieved a one as was hers 
 when they all went home. 
 
 It was then that she suddenly realized how very 
 lonesome she was, and how much she missed the vis- 
 its of Donald Kendall. 
 
 "Oh, well! He was good fun, even if he was so 
 outrageously conceited and irritable," she said to her- 
 self one day, her eyes idly following the little path 
 through the garden to his side door. 
 
 She went upstairs then to sit with her father. John 
 Gilmore had not been so well of late. Sister Sue won- 
 dered sometimes if it was the beginning of the end.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 MISTS, SUNSHINE, AND CLOUDS 
 
 IT was the beginning, but the end was not yet. John 
 Gilmore rallied from the sickness that had kept him in 
 bed a week, and was so well by Christmas that when 
 the letter came from Cousin Abby, Sister Sue wrote 
 she might come. 
 
 Yes, Cousin Abby had written a very pitiful letter. 
 She said she was sick, and had spent all her money 
 trying to get well. She wished she could die quickly, 
 but the doctors said it would probably be several 
 months, maybe a year, before she did die, and here 
 she was, still living on! Money all gone and not well 
 enough now to earn any more ! She asked, then, could 
 she come to Gilmoreville? She could go, she supposed, 
 to some charity home or hospital; but the thought was 
 torture to her. At most she had but a few more 
 months to live, and she would like to spend them 
 among her own kin and die peacefully with some one 
 of her own people to close her eyes. And Sister Sue 
 was so good, so kind ! Why, if she could be with Sis- 
 ter Sue she would n't mind the loss of home and 
 money nor even the pain. Could she come ? She would 
 n't be any bother. It was her heart. It would just 
 stop beating some day. There were pains at times, 
 oh, awful pains. But she was not sick in bed and she 
 could wait on herself. She would wait on herself if 
 only Sister Sue would say, yes, she might come.
 
 MISTS, SUNSHINE, AND CLOUDS 257 
 
 And Sister Sue had said yes. And Cousin Abby 
 came. A faded, forlorn Cousin Abby, with graying 
 hair and sad eyes, and none of the brisk alertness 
 that used to "order the maids about and cut a dash 
 with the motor car," as Gordon had once described 
 her. 
 
 True to her promise, she was, indeed, not much 
 trouble to care for (until toward the end, which came 
 in August), but, inasmuch as she spent most of her 
 waking hours in bemoaning her own sad fate, or the 
 "terrible catastrophe that had befallen dear Cousin 
 John and his family," her conversation was not only 
 uncomfortable, but was exceedingly depressing, and 
 Sister Sue oftentimes wondered how she could com- 
 bat or even endure it. 
 
 When May learned of Cousin Abby 's circumstances, 
 the letter and its result, she promptly informed Sister 
 Sue that, of course, she understood that this had 
 made it utterly impossible for her to come to Gil- 
 moreville this summer. That Cousin Abby always 
 had been very distasteful to her, and that certainly 
 now, with a sensitive child like Martia to consider, 
 to go there was quite out of the question. They 
 should go to the shore for the entire summer. That 
 she hoped Sister Sue would understand their absence 
 from Gilmoreville this summer was not any inten- 
 tional slight to her father, but was occasioned entirely 
 by Sister Sue's own selfishness in entertaining a 
 guest that made other guests impossible. 
 
 Sister Sue gasped a little at the "selfishness," but 
 beyond a pleasant note to May, regretting her deci-
 
 258 SISTER SUE 
 
 sion to absent herself from Gilmoreville, she made no 
 comment. 
 
 Gordon wrote that they, too, would not be up to 
 Gilmoreville, though he did not give Cousin Abby's 
 presence as the excuse. He wrote as the proud father 
 of a new baby. He was afraid the journey would be 
 quite unsafe for either his wife or his son. 
 
 Sister Sue, therefore, except for her father and 
 Cousin Abby, was alone all through the summer, 
 which was well, as it turned out, for the poor little 
 invalid guest was a great sufferer the last two months 
 of her life, and Sister Sue, with her pupils and all, had 
 her hands quite full enough as it was. 
 
 In September, two weeks after the funeral, Donald 
 Kendall came to his mother's home for a week's visit. 
 He had been in town just ten minutes when he hur- 
 ried over to his neighbors to tell Sister Sue that there 
 was nothing the matter with his good right arm this 
 time, and, indeed, there certainly did not seem to be, 
 judging by the way he made use of it during the seven 
 days he was there. From morning until night (and it 
 would apparently have been from night until morning 
 if Donald Kendall could have had his way) the two 
 were playing every spare minute that Sister Sue 
 could wring from her busy life. And when the week 
 was over, Sister Sue declared to herself that that one 
 week had fully compensated for the long summer of 
 distress and discomfort, besides fortifying her for 
 whatever the future had in store. It seemed so good 
 to live with real music, once more, Sister Sue told 
 herself. Nor did it occur to her that the player of
 
 MISTS, SUNSHINE, AND CLOUDS 259 
 
 the music, the real music, had anything more to do 
 with her rest and refreshment and joy than that he 
 was merely the willing instrument through which the 
 music poured. 
 
 It did occur to Granny Preston. After Donald 
 Kendall had gone, she asked the question of Sister 
 Sue: "If your father got better, really himself again, 
 so ye could leave him all right, would ye go on, that 
 is, I mean have ye given up all idea of ever goin' on 
 an' bein' that concert player ye wanted ter be?" 
 
 Sister Sue's face instantly flamed into excited 
 eagerness. 
 
 "Give it up? No, no! Indeed, no! If Father should 
 get better, and if I wasn't too old ! I'm only 
 twenty-five now, you know ! I could do it ! I know I 
 could ! You should hear the nice things Mr. Kendall 
 says about my playing. Oh, no, I have n't given it 
 up not yet!" 
 
 All of which only goes to prove that not even yet 
 were those clamorous calls of "Encore! Encore! 
 Susanna Gilmore! Encore!" quite silenced in Sister 
 Sue's ears. 
 
 But Mrs. Preston only sent a sharp glance over her 
 spectacles and grunted "Humph!" 
 
 Martin Kent's newest book came out in October. 
 As usual, Sister Sue received an autographed copy 
 from the author, and very promptly read it. As was 
 usual, also, she wrote a note of congratulations and 
 best wishes to her brother-in-law. The note this year 
 had been a little harder than heretofore to write. 
 Sister Sue worried a little over it after she dispatched
 
 260 SISTER SUE 
 
 it. She hoped it had not shown the disappointment 
 she had felt in the book. She had been growing more 
 and more disappointed in them all, but this latest 
 was quite the worst, she thought. He had named it 
 "Blixie." It was obviously an imitation of his first 
 and only success, "Trixie," and a weak one at that. 
 That her fears about her note were not ground- 
 less Sister Sue realized very soon, for a letter quickly 
 came from May reading as follows: 
 
 You don't like "Blixie" [she began abruptly, after the 
 salutation] ; anybody could see that from your letter. Mar- 
 tin was real hurt. I do wish you could have kept it from 
 him. I had an awful time with him. He was really very 
 much troubled, coming as it did on top of all the rest. 
 That is, you don't know it, perhaps, but I mean the criti- 
 cisms on "Blixie " ; they 're horrid ! Perfectly horrid ! They 
 say it's nothing but a very weak imitation of "Trixie" 
 and that he's tried to duplicate that wonderful success and 
 failed miserably. 
 
 Martin was feeling especially out of fix when your letter 
 came, for he'd just been reading a criticism saying: "Mar- 
 tin Kent was evidently destined to be that deplorable but 
 very common anomaly in the literary world, the author of 
 one book no matter how many books may follow the single 
 success." The mean things! I'm sure I don't know what 
 they do want. It 's all their own fault, anyway. They ' ve 
 never liked a single one of Martin's books since "Trixie." 
 When he wrote "The Unknown Highway " they said it was 
 nothing so good as "Trixie" and was unlike that wonderful 
 little gem, and that the author would have done a great 
 deal better to stick to the line of his original success. And 
 they said the same sort of things about his other books. 
 Well, now this year he tried to stick to the line of his original 
 success. He tried to write a story like "Trixie." And now
 
 MISTS, SUNSHINE, AND CLOUDS 261 
 
 what does he get? He's "copying," if you please! And 
 doing it very poorly, too ! It makes me sick ! It 's positively 
 disgusting! 
 
 Besides, it's really serious, from the money point of 
 view, I mean. None of his books have been much of a suc- 
 cess except "Trixie," and Martin's preaching economy to 
 me now all the time. He says we've got to economize. I 
 tell him that I '11 have to go trying my hand again at writ- 
 ing. I did get one story accepted, you know. 
 
 The letter closed then with a few words about Mar- 
 tia and about the weather. But there was a post- 
 script, which said: 
 
 If you can think up anything nice to say about "Blixie" 
 when you write, for Heaven's sake say it ! 
 
 Sister Sue, however, could not think up anything 
 apparently. At all events, she evidently forgot all 
 about the postscript the next time she wrote. 
 
 As the winter came on, John Gilmore grew more 
 feeble. He came less frequently downstairs now, 
 spending much of his time sitting quietly in his room 
 looking out upon his snow-covered garden. He did not 
 seem to be suffering any pain and Sister Sue refused to 
 think that he was really not so well. 
 
 "It is just that he can't get out of doors," she said 
 to Mrs. Preston one day. "He'll be all right when 
 spring comes and he can get to digging in his beloved 
 garden again." 
 
 She said the same thing to Donald Kendall one 
 day just after Christmas. (The violinist had come on 
 to spend the holidays, ostensibly with his mother, 
 though in reality he seemed to be spending them with
 
 262 SISTER SUE 
 
 her neighbor, Sister Sue.) It was then that Donald 
 Kendall, curiously enough, asked Sister Sue a similar 
 question to that asked by Mrs. Preston not very long 
 before: 
 
 "Miss Gilmore, have you quite given up all idea of 
 a musical career? That is, if your father should get 
 very much better so that he did not need you at all, 
 would you take up your music again?" 
 
 He had asked the question diffidently, and Sister 
 Sue smiled. He was thinking of that peremptory 
 command of his that she go with him as his accom- 
 panist, of course! But she would show him most em- 
 phatically that that could n't be. 
 
 So she answered him very much as she had an- 
 swered Mrs. Preston; and she let him understand that, 
 yes, oh, yes, she assuredly should go on with her 
 music. 
 
 "I should go straight to Signer Bartoni," she de- 
 clared, "and I should ask him to put me in shape 
 again, if 't was necessary, and then tell me where to 
 go and what to do to train myself for a concert 
 pianist." 
 
 She said more, very much more. Because she be- 
 lieved that Donald Kendall had sympathetic ears 
 and would understand, she let him see deep into her 
 heart, deeper than ever before, of what had been her 
 hopes, her longings, her ambitions. And when she had 
 finished and had turned back to the piano, flushed 
 and trembling with the excitement of anticipation, 
 Donald Kendall realized a little something of what 
 those long years of sacrifice and waiting had meant to
 
 MISTS, SUNSHINE, AND CLOUDS 263 
 
 this girl whose companionship he so craved. But to it 
 all Donald Kendall made no answer. He ejaculated a 
 short "Humph!" then he lifted his violin to position 
 and began to play furiously the scherzo on the rack 
 before him playing it at almost double his usual 
 tempo. 
 
 Donald Kendall had understood, but he had not 
 sympathized. For Donald Kendall had seen the vision 
 of Sister Sue, as the "great artiste," bo whig her ap- 
 preciation to the applauding multitudes, and he had 
 heard again, more clearly than before, that clamorous 
 call of " Encore ! Encore ! Susanna Gilmore ! Encore ! " 
 and he was not pleased. It was not now for an ac- 
 companist on his concert tours that he wanted Sister 
 Sue. He had found that out. He wanted her accom- 
 paniment, yes, he told himself bitterly, passionately, 
 but it was her accompaniment to all his life, not merely 
 to his violin. And if still she was cherishing hopes of 
 pursuing that infernal career of hers, one ! 
 
 With a crashing cadence of staccato double-stop- 
 ping he brought the scherzo to a sudden close and 
 abruptly and very formally took his leave. 
 
 Once more it appeared that this wisp of a tantaliz- 
 ing bit of femininity was not going to give him what 
 he wanted when he wanted it. And, like the spoiled 
 child that he was, Donald Kendall went home and 
 sulked. Lying awake in the night, however, he had 
 decided that, even so, there was no reason why he 
 should deprive himself of the pleasure of her piano- 
 forte accompaniments whenever he could have them. 
 So, as usual, in the morning he went over to her house
 
 264 SISTER SUE 
 
 promptly at nine o'clock, though he had to content 
 himself with the magazines on the living-room table 
 for a full hour till the departure of Sister Sue's pupils 
 gave her a short time of freedom to play for him. 
 
 The thought that he might as well enjoy these ex- 
 ceedingly satisfying accompaniments as long and as 
 often as he could must have occurred again and yet 
 again to Donald Kendall, for that winter he fell into 
 the way of running up to Gilmoreville between en- 
 gagements, on one or two days' visits, and in the 
 month of May he thought he had found a whole 
 week to stay. 
 
 But Donald Kendall did not stay the whole week. 
 He stayed three days and then went away. And his 
 going was very much like the running away of a man 
 who had found his feet on the edge of an engulfing 
 quicksand and felt the ground underneath him al- 
 ready slipping. Donald Kendall knew now that he 
 could not go on indefinitely "enjoying" those ac- 
 companiments. He was beginning to love the player 
 altogether too well to want to see her like this and be 
 with her like this, and yet know that it would always 
 be like this, nothing more, and not even this after 
 she was free to live her own life. 
 
 And Donald Kendall believed that she would be 
 free very soon now. He had seen John Gilmore many 
 times during the winter and had watched him moving 
 about and felt then that the feeble old gentleman 
 could not live through till spring, surely not a month 
 longer now. He learned, too, from his mother, that 
 the general belief in the village was that the end was
 
 MISTS, SUNSHINE, AND CLOUDS 265 
 
 near. When that end came the girl would be free to 
 live her own life. In Donald Kendall's eyes was the 
 vision of her as she had talked to him that December 
 day, flushed, palpitating, and shining-eyed; and to his 
 ears came again very distinctly the clamorous "En- 
 core! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! Encore !" that her 
 glowing words had evoked. 
 
 In December he had loved her and he had run away 
 for a night, because he loved her and could not 
 have her for his own. He still loved her and he was 
 going to run away again. This time for always 
 perhaps. He now loved her too well to ask her to give 
 up her dreams of success for the sake of marrying him ; 
 and he loved her so well now that he did not dare re- 
 main and run the risk of sometime letting her see 
 just how dear she was to him and how necessary she 
 was to his happiness. Was he, after all her long years 
 of waiting and self-sacrifices, going to bring to her 
 dear eyes one shadow of regret or of disappointment, 
 just as she saw the way opening wide before her to 
 the long-looked-for goal? Never! Let her spread her 
 wings and fly. Let her have her glorious flight out 
 into the freedom, with the wide, wide world open be- 
 fore her, and without a thought of any one behind her 
 who would be looking after her with longing eyes and 
 outstretching arms. Let her go out unshackled and 
 unhampered. Then, after she had tasted the sweets 
 of fame and success and had found they were not 
 sweet after all, and after she had come to feel wearied 
 with the incessant bowing of her thanks and bored by 
 the everlasting demand for encores, it might be then
 
 266 SISTER SUE 
 
 that she would be glad to come into the circle of his 
 arms and let him love and care for her all the rest of 
 the days of her life. But now now he could not, 
 dare not, remain another day, not another day. 
 
 And so on the evening of the third day he went 
 through the side gate and up the garden walk with a 
 very determined air and he did not carry his violin. 
 He had planned to stay as short a time as possible. 
 
 "I have come to say good-bye," he began in a par- 
 ticularly gay voice, as he ascended the steps. 
 
 "G-good-bye?" Sister Sue's voice was startled. 
 "Why, I thought you were going to stay a week! 
 And where is your violin?" 
 
 "That's it I can't stay and I did n't bring it. 
 That's what I came over to tell you I'm going 
 away " Rapidly talked the man and in the same 
 particularly gay voice. "I'm going to-morrow morn- 
 ing invitation" (which was true) "week-end 
 to the Bentons' down at the North Shore. They 've 
 just opened up their cottage." 
 
 " The the Bentons at the North Shore " 
 Sister Sue echoed the names because evidently she 
 knew not what else to say. Her eyes were puzzled, 
 questioning. 
 
 "Yes, the Bentons," he nodded. Then, because he 
 wanted to talk of anything but themselves and their 
 own minds and feelings, he plunged at once into a 
 somewhat voluble description of his host's family. 
 "Nice people. Really a good sort, you know, in spite 
 of their loads of money. There's a daughter Beth 
 who sings, and a daughter Helen who paints very
 
 MISTS, SUNSHINE, AND CLOUDS 267 
 
 well, too. Then there are two boys, twins, in Harvard. 
 There's always something doing at the Bentons', you 
 may be sure." 
 
 "Yes I I should think so," murmured Sister Sue. 
 
 "And so I'm going to-morrow yes, to-mor- 
 row morning." 
 
 He said more, quite a little more. He told of 
 various experiences he had had in times past at the 
 Bentons' cottage down at the North Shore, and he 
 told what he imagined he would do this time. He 
 rose to his feet then a little abruptly and, before 
 Sister Sue quite realized what was happening, he was 
 gone. 
 
 On the porch, alone, Sister Sue shivered as if with 
 a sudden chill. Pulling her coat a little more closely 
 about her, she waited a moment, then went into the 
 house. She sat down at the piano after a while and 
 began to play, and there was in her music a thread 
 of questioning that seemed not to have found an 
 answer even when the player rose from the piano a 
 long half -hour later. 
 
 John Gilmore did not die that spring, nor in a 
 month, nor yet in two months. He lived on through 
 the summer and into the next winter. But he took to 
 his bed in June and from that time he suffered in a 
 way that made his days and nights a torture not only 
 to him, but to his daughter Sue as well. 
 
 In July, May came up with Martin, but they stayed 
 only a few days. May said she was much too sensi- 
 tive to stand anything like that. Later, Gordon came
 
 268 SISTER SUE 
 
 with Mabel and little Gordon, Jr. Mabel begged to be 
 allowed to stay. She said she knew she could help 
 Sister Sue a little; but Gordon insisted that she go 
 back with him. He said that she was delicate and 
 nervous and had not fully regained her strength from 
 her operation in the spring. Besides, he said, the 
 baby's crying might disturb their father, and anyhow 
 he wanted them with him. So, reluctantly, Mabel 
 went back with Gordon. Sister Sue was alone then 
 with her father except for Delia in the kitchen. Both 
 May and Gordon had suggested a nurse, and one had 
 been hired for a time, but was soon dismissed. Her 
 presence annoyed the sick man, and her ministrations 
 seemed to make him worse rather than better. True 
 to his habit for so long, John Gilmore wanted his 
 daughter Sue no one else. Fortunately he did not, 
 through the summer, need very frequent attentions, 
 so Sister Sue was still enabled to keep on with her 
 pupils, much to her satisfaction and relief. She not 
 only wanted the money, but she felt she must, at 
 least a part of the time, have something else to think 
 of and to do, something that would take her mind not 
 only off her father's sufferings but also off herself. 
 
 Sister Sue was ashamed and dismayed. She ad- 
 mitted it to herself now. She was in love with a man 
 who not only was supremely indifferent to herself, 
 of that she was very sure, but very evidently was 
 in love with another woman a Beth who sang or a 
 Helen who painted. 
 
 Sister Sue wondered sometimes just how long she 
 really had been caring for Donald Kendall. She had
 
 MISTS, SUNSHINE, AND CLOUDS 269 
 
 suspected it first at the time when he had gone away so 
 suddenly that week in May and she had found how 
 empty were those three last days of the week which 
 she had expected would be so full. But she had put 
 the thought out of her mind at once with an indignant 
 "Absurd! Ridiculous! Why, the idea!" In spite 
 of this, however, she found herself watching for his 
 return and even asking Mrs. Kendall one day when 
 her son was coming back. It was the answer, perhaps, 
 that had really opened her eyes to that which she had 
 before refused to see in her heart. 
 
 "Back here? Well, not at all, I'm afraid, this sum- 
 mer," said Mrs. Kendall. "He's gone now on a 
 yachting cruise with the Bentons and I can't see, from 
 the plans he tells me of, that he's leaving any time 
 at all for Gilmoreville. A shabby way to treat his 
 mother, I think, don't you?" 
 
 "Y-ye-yes, I do!" Sister Sue stammered, wonder- 
 ing if the sudden tightness that seemed to take her 
 very breath did show in her face. 
 
 She got away then as soon as she could, appalled at 
 the thing she now knew beyond all doubt; a con- 
 viction that no "absurd!" or "nonsense!" or "the 
 very idea!" could silence. 
 
 She knew now why the days were so long and 
 empty immediately after Donald Kendall had gone. 
 She knew now why the past winter with its frequent 
 visits from Donald Kendall had seemed so short. 
 She knew now why the Beth who sang and the Helen 
 who painted had always given her a vague uneasiness 
 and the desire to banish them at once from her
 
 270 SISTER SUE 
 
 thoughts. She knew now, too, something else. She 
 knew that never, never, had she loved, really loved, 
 Martin Kent. Last of all she knew, at least she was 
 very sure she knew, that Donald Kendall did not 
 love her. If he had loved her, would he have gone 
 away in the middle of a week to a Beth who sang and 
 a Helen who painted? And if he had loved her, would 
 he not have come up at least once during all that 
 long, long summer? Giving herself the only answers 
 to these questions she thought possible as being true, 
 it is no wonder, perhaps, that Sister Sue was ashamed 
 and dismayed, and that she was glad of even a bun- 
 gling scale played by Johnny Smith to get her mind 
 off herself. And so the long summer passed and 
 September came. 
 
 And September brought Donald Kendall. 
 
 Sister Sue knew that he was coming, but she did 
 not know the time of his expected arrival. She hated 
 herself because each day her feet would every little 
 while take her to the window commanding a view of 
 the Kendalls' front walk and because her ears each 
 day would listen for the sound of a motor car coming 
 up the street. At five o'clock one day he came, and 
 at half-past seven he rang the Gilmores' doorbell. 
 For fifteen uncomfortable minutes he sat stiffly erect 
 on the old haircloth-covered sofa making polite in- 
 quiries as to the state of her own health and that of 
 John Gilmore and talking of inconsequential nothings. 
 Then he arose to go. And because he was so desper- 
 ately afraid he would take her in his arms and tell her 
 that he could not live without her, he rambled on
 
 MISTS, SUNSHINE, AND CLOUDS 271 
 
 very gayly about his yachting cruise with the Ben- 
 tons. And because Sister Sue was so desperately 
 afraid she would show him how she longed to put her 
 head on his shoulder and be petted and comforted, 
 she gave little hard, short laughs and said she was 
 so glad he 'd had such a lovely time and were the 
 Bentons all well, especially the charming daughter 
 who sang and the other one who painted? 
 
 Then they shook hands and the outer door banged. 
 On one side of it Donald Kendall strode down the 
 steps with a choking sound in his throat that might 
 have passed for a cough. On the other side Sister Sue 
 threw herself into the big chair with a sound in her 
 throat that would never have been mistaken for any- 
 thing in the world but what it was a great, big sob. 
 
 It was that night that the real beginning of the end 
 came with John Gilmore. He had a bad sinking spell, 
 and when he came out of it he was feebler than ever 
 in mind and body, though his sufferings seemed less. 
 A nurse had to be sent for, and her coming disturbed 
 him not at all. Yet he lingered, with the strangely 
 tenacious hold on life that the frailest of invalids 
 sometimes show, through October and November 
 and into December, going peacefully to sleep at last 
 just before the New Year.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE REVOLT 
 
 ONLY Gordon came to the funeral. Mabel was sick at 
 home and May telegraphed that neither Martin nor 
 herself would be able to come, explaining by letter 
 that Martia had too heavy a cold to risk going and 
 that she could n't think of such a thing as going all 
 by herself in the winter in all that snow. They sent 
 a very beautiful wreath, however. 
 
 When it was all over and Gordon and Sister Sue sat 
 alone in the living-room with the heavy scent of roses 
 bringing back the scene of the morning, Gordon 
 cleared his throat a little self-consciously. 
 
 " Well, Sister Sue, this will mean a change, of 
 course, for you. You won't want to stay here alone, 
 surely." 
 
 " No. Oh, no. I should n't want to stay here 
 alone." Sister Sue repeated the words a little me- 
 chanically. 
 
 "Well, you know, of course, that our latchstring is 
 always out. We 'd be very glad to have you come to 
 live with us." 
 
 "Thank you but- 
 
 "O\ no 'buts' now. Don't go to feeling sensitive, 
 my dear," interrupted Gordon, a trifle patronizingly. 
 "You won't be a bit in the way, so don't feel that 
 you '11 be a burden. On the contrary, you '11 be a real 
 help, and you'll find plenty to do, I'll warrant, so
 
 THE REVOLT 273 
 
 that you'll be paying for your board and keep all 
 right," he laughed. "Grocery clerks with my pay 
 can't afford maids, you know, and Mabel is so poorly, 
 and has so much to do, what with the baby and all. 
 Oh, you '11 find plenty to do all right. Just remember 
 that we '11 be glad to have you, that 's all glad to 
 have you. And now I must go if I 'm going to catch 
 that train," he finished, rising to his feet. 
 
 Sister Sue smiled faintly and thanked him for his 
 invitation and said he was very kind. But not until 
 after Gordon was in the train on his way home did he 
 suddenly remember that Sister Sue had not told him 
 whether she would accept his offer of a home or not. 
 
 Two days after the funeral came a letter from May. 
 It was a very cordial letter, even a loving one. May 
 wrote, she said, to assure her dear sister Sue that she 
 would be most welcome to a home with them. And 
 she said that Sister Sue need not worry at all about 
 being under obligations nor feel as if she was accepting 
 charity. That it would n't be so at all. They really 
 needed her. She was such a splendid nurse that she 
 would be a valuable addition to the family. And with 
 the new baby coming in June her presence would be 
 really a great comfort and help. Therefore, she need 
 feel no hesitation on that score. 
 
 "So, now, come right along," she finished, signing 
 herself as "Your affectionate and loving sister Jay." 
 
 For three days after this letter came, Sister Sue 
 still went from room to room sorting, arranging, put- 
 ting in order, doing the innumerable tasks that must 
 always be done whenever one among us lays down
 
 274 SISTER SUE 
 
 her work for the last time. On the fourth day she 
 went into Mrs. Preston's kitchen, where the old lady 
 sat by the window in the sun. Wearily Sister Sue 
 dropped into a chair. 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Preston, I I've decided," she began, 
 flushing a little. 
 
 "About" 
 
 "What to do. I'm going. I've got to go, Mrs. 
 Preston. You don't know, but all these days 
 since since Father went I Ve been fighting a 
 battle." 
 
 " Yes, my dear." There was just enough but not too 
 much interest in the voice of the little shrewd old lady. 
 
 "They want me. Gordon wants me, and May 
 wants me. They say I need n't feel I'm a burden, 
 nor that it's charity to give me a home." 
 
 The little old woman gave an indignant sniff, but 
 Sister Sue went on without seeming to notice it. 
 
 " They say I can do enough, plenty enough, for my 
 board and keep." 
 
 The old lady sniffed again, but Sister Sue still kept 
 on unheeding. 
 
 "And it's true, I can do enough. I know I can. 
 I 'm really needed in both places, and that 's the worst 
 of it. I know I'm needed, but I'm going to run 
 away." 
 
 She paused, but only for breath. 
 
 "Mrs. Preston, I've got to run away. I know I'm 
 a good cook and a good nurse and a good manager 
 and a good seamstress, and I know I could help out 
 a lot in either family. But I'm tired of helping out.
 
 THE REVOLT 275 
 
 That sounds dreadful, I know. But it's the truth. I'm 
 tired of helping out ! The other day I read of a little 
 girl who was asked what she was going to be when she 
 grew up, and she answered, 'I'm going to be myself.' 
 Mrs. Preston, that's what I want to be. I want to be 
 myself. And I never have been. All my life I've been 
 only Sister Sue. I now want the biggest apple and 
 the biggest piece of cake, and I don't want to tie any- 
 body's shoestrings but my own for a while. Oh, 
 I know that sounds selfish and horrid, and you don't 
 know what I mean, anyway. But I can't help it. 
 I am selfish and horrid to-day. Mrs. Preston, I'm 
 nearly twenty-seven years old now. Am I selfish and 
 horrid to want to be be myself for a little while?" 
 
 "My land's sakes, child! No!" emphasized the 
 old woman vigorously. "You're just right!" 
 
 "Thanks. That helps a lot," sighed the girl, "even 
 if I do know it's not so. You see, I've made up my 
 mind I'm not going to May's or Gordon's, though 
 I'm going to Boston. I'm going to Signer Bartoni's 
 and study again. I'm going to try to be what I've 
 longed all my life to be a concert pianist. You 
 don't know, Mrs. Preston, how hungry I am for 
 music, real music. And I'm going to hear, oh, such 
 a lot of it when I get to Boston. And I'll teach, of 
 course, after a while. I '11 have to for the money. But 
 I 've got enough to start with, and there '11 be a little 
 more, I suppose, from the estate. Mr. Loring's at- 
 tending to that, of course. And we're going to keep 
 the old place in the family, Mrs. Preston, so don't 
 worry about having to move."
 
 276 SISTER SUE 
 
 "That's good; I'm glad," breathed the old woman 
 fervently. "When are you going?" 
 
 "Next week. Monday morning. I'm going the 
 first minute I can get away. I've got to have some 
 things to wear, of course. I'll get some here, but I'll 
 get more in Boston. Boston ! Oh, Mrs. Preston, you 
 don't know what just the sound of that word means 
 to me!" 
 
 "Don't I?" 
 
 "You can't! Nobody can! And to think that I'm 
 going just next Monday ! And so I shall write to May 
 and Gordon, but I shan't write till Saturday. I 
 don't want to be here when they answer. I want to be 
 already gone. I shall tell them to address me in Bos- 
 ton, care of Mr. Loring. I don't know where I '11 be in 
 Boston. I 'm going first to Mr. Loring's, but I shan't 
 stay there. I want to get away from here, anyway, as 
 soon as I can. I see Father everywhere in the aw- 
 ful way he's been the past few years. I'm hoping 
 down to Boston to get my real Father back in my 
 memory, the one I used to know. That's another 
 reason why I'm in such a hurry to get there, get 
 there!" she cried, rising to her feet and stretching out 
 her arms in an abandonment of longing. 
 
 A moment later Mrs. Preston found herself alone. 
 
 Sister Sue wrote her letters on Saturday, and on 
 Monday she left for Boston just as she had planned. 
 
 On Tuesday Mrs. Preston was confronted by a 
 wild-eyed young woman and a scarcely less wild- 
 eyed young man. Mrs. Martin Kent had evidently 
 found the snow and the winter and the trip all alone
 
 THE REVOLT 277 
 
 no obstruction whatever to her coming to Gilmore- 
 ville this time. She and her brother had met at 
 the station and had gone to the house together. In- 
 dignantly, then, they had accosted Mrs. Preston with 
 the demand: 
 
 "Where is my sister?" 
 
 A sudden gleam leaped to the eyes of the little old 
 lady, though at the same time a quiet smile came to 
 her lips. For reasons of her own Mrs. Preston pre- 
 ferred not to antagonize the pair before her just yet. 
 There were certain things that she wished to say to 
 them before they left. 
 
 "Miss Gilmore? Why, she went to Boston just 
 yesterday. What a pity, and you just missed her! 
 Come in and sit down." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know," interrupted Mrs. May hur- 
 riedly, dropping herself into the offered chair with 
 plain reluctance. "We knew she was going, but not 
 so soon We came up to to stop her." 
 
 "Yes, to stop her," echoed the young man nerv- 
 ously, as he also took a seat. 
 
 "Stop her?" This time it was a question from the 
 little old lady, and again the peculiar gleam leaped to 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Yes, yes," answered two voices. And then the 
 young woman added: "It was so absurd, her starting 
 off like this all alone to Boston ! Why, we wrote her 
 to come to us to live with us. We offered her a 
 home. We both did." 
 
 "A home!" The word had caused the gleam to 
 leap into flame now. "Yes, and what kind of a home
 
 278 SISTER SUE 
 
 would it be?" demanded the little old woman, sitting 
 suddenly erect. " What kind of a home would it be? " 
 
 Then, before either of the astonished and bewil- 
 dered young people sitting there could speak, she 
 went on to answer her own question. And right loy- 
 ally she answered it. In emphatic, but very plainly- 
 to-be-understood English she told just what kind of 
 a home it would be, with Sister Sue at the beck and 
 call of every one in it, with no life or will or wish of 
 her own. She drew a picture of what Sister Sue's life 
 had been thus far, and it was a very vivid picture. 
 
 Cleverly, from what she had heard and seen and 
 known and guessed, she put together and built a very 
 good mosaic of Sister Sue's daily living from the time 
 her mother had died. And she pictured, too, the life 
 Sister Sue had wanted to live, and so potent were her 
 words that they themselves could see their sister Sue 
 bowing her thanks to the applauding multitudes who 
 acclaimed her the world's greatest pianist. This little 
 old woman made them see then what Sister Sue had 
 given up all these years, from the larger apple to the 
 larger life, and how she had given it up for them. 
 They had gone away to school, to camp, and to pay 
 visits. They had married and left home. They had 
 gone and come as they pleased. She had stayed. 
 And now when the chance had come, and she had 
 snatched at the years remaining to her, hoping still to 
 be "herself" yet once before she died, what had they 
 done? 
 
 "Here ye be the both of ye," accused the old 
 woman severely, "grudgin' her the few minutes she's
 
 THE REVOLT 279 
 
 got left, an' teasin' her ter keep on bein' Sister Sue till 
 the end of her days jest so's ye can keep on havin' 
 that biggest apple ter the last." 
 
 Mrs. Martin Kent gave an inarticulate gasp; her 
 brother said a short word under his breath. But that 
 the irate little old woman had found a chord some- 
 where within them that vibrated to her appeal was 
 evident, for chokingly then the young woman ques- 
 tioned : 
 
 "But what are we to do?" 
 
 "Do? Ye can go home. An' when yer sister Sue 
 writes she has played a tune or seen a show or met 
 somebody she used ter know, or done anything else 
 she wants ter do, tell her ye 're glad an' ye hope she '11 
 do it ag'in, an' don't ye say one word about baby's 
 croup or yer own cold or yer husband's terrible sore 
 toe, or anything else that would make her imagine, 
 maybe, she ought ter be there ter take care of it. 
 Just let her be her own self for once an' tell her ye 're 
 glad she can be. An' ter-night, on yer knees, thank 
 the good Lord that you Ve got a sister Sue. 
 
 "Oh! Ye ain't the only one. There's others, lots 
 of 'em, right in this town, an' other towns, too, I 
 s'pose. There's any amount of Sister Sues, always 
 stayin' home themselves an' sendin' everybody else 
 off ; always givin' up what they want fer what some- 
 body else don't want; always takin' a back seat so's 
 everybody else can have the front; always stayin' in 
 the kitchin an' peelin' pertaters for somebody else 
 ter eat. Yer own Sister Sue said she was doin' that 
 last herself; I heard her; so ye can see how she felt.
 
 280 SISTER SUE 
 
 An' they ain't appreciated. They never be. Just 
 'cause they don't stand out in front an' wave a flag 
 when the percession goes by, they ain't noticed. Ten 
 ter one they're in the kitchin that minute fryin' 
 doughnuts for that same percession ter eat when they 
 git through marchin'. Though, when they git Over 
 There, they'll be appreciated. What '11 ye bet their 
 crowns won't be so bright with stars it'll make one 
 blind just ter look at 'em? 
 
 "Oh! I know I'm talkin' I'm talkin' a lot. 
 But I feel a lot, an' if I talked all night I could n't 
 half finish tellin' ye what I feel. But I'm just tryin' 
 ter tell ye that 't ain't always the folks that goes off 
 an' writes books an' plays the fiddle an' sings in the 
 opery that does the most good fer their towns. It's 
 jest as apt an' a little more so ter be the Sister 
 Sues that stay at home an' play in Sunday-School an' 
 prayer-meetin's an' gittin' the boys an' girls together 
 an' givin' 'em sings an' candy-pulls an' keeps 'em off 
 the streets. But nobody ever pays ter see 'em or 
 meets 'em with bands playin' at the railroad station. 
 An' that's why I'm tryin' ter tell ye that I hope 
 sometime you'll appreciate the Sister Sue you've 
 got. There! I I guess I've said enough." 
 
 Mrs. Martin Kent wiped her eyes openly. "I- 
 I hope what you've said will will do me some 
 good," she stammered. 
 
 Gordon went over to the window and, looking out, 
 muttered: "I've been a blamed idiot.'
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE LIFE WORTH WHILE 
 
 ALL the way to Boston Sister Sue caught herself 
 looking furtively over her shoulder. She could not 
 get rid of the idea that she was running away, and 
 that she would be followed and taken back home, 
 like a naughty child. Before her eyes always was, 
 not the letters from her brother and sister, but the 
 fact behind the letters, that she could be and would 
 be a real benefit to either family if she were to accept 
 their offer of a home. Already she had brought 
 about a wondrous improvement in Gordon's wife; 
 she knew that; and she knew, too, that there was a 
 chance for her to do a great deal more by the quiet 
 influence of her own presence. And as for real, 
 practical aid in the way of housework and nursing, 
 there was no limit to the service she might be in that 
 line to both families. It needed no imagination to 
 picture herself being, in their homes, a self-sacrificing, 
 long-suffering Sister Sue for the rest of her days. Un- 
 fortunately, however, there was still another home 
 she pictured, and in which, with distressingly grow- 
 ing frequency, she was picturing herself her own 
 home; her own home where it would really be this 
 time "all for love and the world well lost." This 
 picture, though, was one that always came unbidden, 
 and which was, if possible, put to rout at once with a 
 scornful: "For shame! And he dead in love with a
 
 282 SISTER SUE 
 
 Beth who sings or a Helen who paints! And you 
 knowing it all the time!" Determinedly, then, al- 
 ways Sister Sue would bring to mind that other pic- 
 ture, the picture which for so many years had been 
 her star of promise the picture of herself holding 
 enthralled by the ends of her fingers the vast multi- 
 tudes who had come to hear her play. And she told 
 herself that now now at last she had her chance ! 
 And so she began to lay her plans. Plans in which 
 there was no room for a Mabel who needed polishing, 
 or a May who needed nursing, or yet a Donald Ken- 
 dall who did not need loving but was loved just the 
 same. 
 
 Arrived in Boston, however, all pictures vanished. 
 In Sister Sue's nostrils was the sooty smell of the en- 
 gine smoke to her a veritable perfume of Araby. 
 In Sister Sue's eyes were the shifting throngs of 
 moving people to her a veritable kaleidoscope of 
 charm and color. In Sister Sue's ears was the new 
 yet ever familiar rush and roar of a great city a 
 veritable song of freedom to the long-restrained little 
 woman who seemed to herself to be walking on air 
 instead of on the somewhat dirty floor of a huge rail- 
 road station. 
 
 In the waiting-room she found Mr. Loring watch- 
 ing for her; and in the Lorings' beautiful home that 
 night she slept the sleep of a tired child. For nearly a 
 week she "just played and rested," as she termed it 
 to Mrs. Loring. Begging to be left quite alone to her 
 own devices, she foraged in the libraries and mu- 
 seums; fed her longing soul on concerts and plays;
 
 THE LIFE WORTH WHILE 283 
 
 and then she would go home to a good book, a box of 
 chocolates, and a luxurious couch with the lights just 
 right. 
 
 And so, rested, refreshed, and fairly tingling with 
 the joy of living, she went to see Signer Bartoni. 
 
 He was busy with a pupil, said the trim little maid 
 ushering her into the old, familiar reception-room. 
 Would she please wait? It would not be for long. 
 Sister Sue drew a long breath then and sat down. 
 She was glad to wait. Perhaps her heart would 
 not beat so fast nor her hands tremble quite so 
 much after ten minutes of quiet rest in the dear old 
 room. 
 
 Slipping off her coat and gloves, she got her music 
 in readiness. On top was the same Liszt concerto she 
 had played for him that memorable day years before 
 when he had set the match to the gunpowder of her 
 ambition. Underneath was a Beethoven sonata, a 
 lyric from Schumann, something from Chopin, and 
 several romantic and emotional little classics she had 
 played for him in those old days, winning from him 
 his "Gr-rand!" "Splend-eed, Mees Gilmore!" 
 
 From behind the closed door leading to the rear 
 drawing-room came the sound of a Chopin nocturne, 
 played rather indifferently and with frequent inter- 
 ruptions in Signer Bartoni's high-pitched, staccato 
 voice. It came to an end at last, and the door opened 
 to admit Signer Bartoni and a very pretty young 
 girl. He came forward at once with outstretched 
 hands. 
 
 "Mees Gilmore! It is Mees Gilmore!" he ex-
 
 284 SISTER SUE 
 
 claimed. "I am delighted, delighted!" He took both 
 her hands in his, and beamed upon her with his little 
 twinkling eyes. 
 
 Sister Sue laughed and blushed and drew in her 
 breath with an ecstatic little catch. Like a cloak, then, 
 the intervening years fell away and left her in her 
 own eyes the girl of twenty. 
 
 "I have come, yes to learn to be the great 
 artiste," she breathed. 
 
 Briefly, then, she told of her past few years and of 
 her chance now to be herself. "And so, may I play 
 to you? " she finished. 
 
 He said: "Yes, yes. By all means!" There was a 
 little time now, but not much before the next pupil. 
 But he would take time. Hear her play? Indeed, he 
 would ! And he led the way to the rear room, closing 
 the door after them. 
 
 "You see I I want to know what what to 
 do," stammered Sister Sue, a little breathlessly as 
 she arranged the music. * ' I want to know whether 
 you want me to stay with you or go to some one 
 else." 
 
 "I see, I see," nodded the man. 
 
 Then Sister Sue began to play. She played the 
 scherzo from the concerto, a Liszt rhapsody, a little of 
 Beethoven, a bit of Chopin, then she rose from the 
 piano. 
 
 Signer Bartoni, watch in hand, had given a sudden 
 exclamation : 
 
 "My pupil! It is past time! Look!" he cried. 
 "But, listen. Can you wait? She is the last to-day.
 
 THE LIFE WORTH WHILE 285 
 
 One little half-hour and she will be gone. Then I talk 
 to you. You'll wait?" 
 
 "Yes, oh, yes! I shan't mind waiting a bit!" cried 
 Sister Sue, gathering up her music and hurrying to- 
 ward the door. 
 
 In the outer room they found a young woman, and 
 a very handsome, distinguished-looking older woman. 
 Toward the latter Signer Bartoni rushed, with out- 
 stretched hands, even more excitedly than he had 
 toward Sister Sue a short time before. 
 
 He turned then and presented Sister Sue, and, at 
 the name, Sister Sue felt like pinching herself to make 
 sure she was not asleep and dreaming, for it was the 
 name borne by the greatest woman pianist the world 
 knew. 
 
 "Now, wait, please, you two," begged the music- 
 master. "I want to see you both. And I am glad. 
 You will be companee for each other." With that 
 he vanished in the wake of his pupil. 
 
 Sister Sue found herself alone then with the GREAT 
 ONE. In Sister Sue's mind she was just that all 
 capitals. Sister Sue had heard her play once years 
 ago. Since then the great pianist had been to Sister 
 Sue the living embodiment of her own dreams. Hid- 
 den away in Sister Sue's desk was a little drawer con- 
 taining pictures, magazine articles, newspaper clip- 
 pings, anything and everything that showed HER 
 fame or mentioned HER name that could be found. 
 Over them Sister Sue had pored many times till she 
 knew them all by heart. And to have before her now 
 that wondrous being in the flesh, talk to her, hear
 
 286 SISTEJl SUE 
 
 her talk ! Even now Sister Sue could not believe 
 but what she had fallen asleep over her desk of treas- 
 ures at home, and was dreaming. 
 
 She was very much awake, however. The lady 
 herself began to talk. She spoke of Signer Bartoni, 
 his fine skill as a teacher, and of her own long friend- 
 ship for him. Then she spoke of the weather and the 
 snow in the streets, the bad "going," of a new book, 
 the latest play. Amiably she chatted on, of nothing 
 in particular, her hands idly toying with a letter she 
 held. A little breathlessly at intervals, and according 
 to the demands of the conversation, Sister Sue would 
 make polite responses, but when there came a pause 
 she burst in, a little incoherently, and very much as if 
 the words were being impelled by a hidden power that 
 could not be controlled : 
 
 "I can't I cant sit here and talk to you like 
 this and not tell you, or at least try to tell you, 
 what you've been to me all these years!" 
 
 "'Been' to you, my dear?" 
 
 "Yes, yes! Oh, if I only could tell you! I heard you 
 play once years ago and, oh, I loved it so ! " 
 
 "Why, I I thank you, I'm sure," answered the 
 lady, with an uncertain smile, evidently a little non- 
 plussed at this sixteen-year-old-hero- worship exuber- 
 ance suddenly bursting from the lips of the heretofore 
 quiet little woman before her. 
 
 "You see, / / loved to play even then, and I 
 had dreams oh, yes, dreams. But when I heard 
 you I knew. I knew just what I wanted to be. I 
 wanted to be a concert pianist. I wanted to hold
 
 THE LIFE WORTH WHILE 287 
 
 people as you held them. I wanted to say things at 
 the ends of my fingers as you said them. I wanted to 
 sing to them with my fingers of the beautiful, beauti- 
 ful world, as I saw it. And to think that that now 
 to-day I should see you and be able to talk 
 to you ! You, who have done so much you, 
 who have made your life, oh, so wonderfully worth 
 while!" 
 
 Unexpectedly the great pianist turned with a sud- 
 den gesture. 
 
 "No, no! Don't say that don't say that!" she 
 cried. She was sitting erect in her chair, and speak- 
 ing with curious passion. "You don't know you 
 don't understand. My life is n't the worth-while 
 one. It 's the one there, right there in that letter, 
 that's really worth while." She held up the letter 
 she had been playing with and tapped it with the 
 forefinger of her other hand. Then, with a little laugh 
 that yet ended in a sigh, she sat back in her chair, her 
 eyes on Sister Sue's startled face. After a moment she 
 went on speaking. 
 
 "You poor child ! You don't know what to make of 
 me, and no wonder. But what you said stirred me 
 profoundly. I'd just been reading this letter. I re- 
 ceived it at the hotel just as I started to come here, 
 and while I was waiting for Signer Bartoni I opened 
 it and read it. It 's from a woman in a little town away 
 up in Vermont. She was a schoolmate of mine. We 
 used to talk and dream together of what we would be. 
 I was all music and wanted to become a great 
 pianist. She had wonderful skill with the pencil and
 
 288 SISTER SUE 
 
 paint-brush and said she wanted to be a great 
 artist some day." 
 
 "Yes, yes. I understand," nodded Sister Sue, her 
 eyes shining. 
 
 "Well, what happened? Do you want to know? 
 Do you really want to know?" 
 
 "Yes, oh, yes. Please!" begged Sister Sue. 
 
 "Very well, then. I will tell you. I went away and 
 studied. I became what I am. My friend my friend 
 did not go away. Just as I left town my friend's 
 mother fell and broke her hip and became a lifelong 
 cripple. There were younger children four of them. 
 And there was not much money. The father was a 
 poor sort, rather shiftless, and never could seem to 
 get much ahead. So my friend (her name is Mary) 
 stepped in and 'put her shoulder to the wheel' as she 
 expressed it. She said she had to." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know." Sister Sue nodded her head 
 again. Her eyes were not shining now. 
 
 "Well! Mary cooked and swept and washed and 
 ironed and mended, and waited on her crippled 
 mother day in and day out, year in and year out. 
 She had a lover, but she gave him up. She could n't 
 leave home, she told him. Of course she gave up all 
 thought of painting. To learn to be a great artist took 
 talent, time, money, and the freedom to leave home. 
 She had none of these but the talent, and that was 
 only an aggravation worse than nothing alone. 
 And so that has been her life; always listening to 
 other people's troubles never telling her own; al- 
 ways carrying other people's burdens never sharing
 
 THE LIFE WORTH WHILE 289 
 
 her own. Her mother died peacefully ten years ago. 
 Her father a year later. Two sisters are married, and 
 one brother has been sent through college; how, I 
 don't know, but I '11 warrant Mary does. She 's 'Aunt ' 
 Mary now. Half a dozen nieces and nephews pour 
 their troubles into her ears and find comfort. As I 
 happen to know, her sisters and one brother depend 
 utterly on her. 
 
 "And yet that woman, my friend Mary, in this 
 letter here, has the presumption to tell me she's glad 
 I Ve made my life so ' worth while ' that hers has 
 been 'so barren." : 
 
 She paused, but Sister Sue did not speak. The 
 girl's eyes were turned away as if she were a little 
 bewildered. After a moment the elder woman con- 
 tinued passionately: 
 
 "Barren! No woman is living a barren life who is 
 needed by some one. My friend Mary's life was not 
 'barren.' Somebody wanted her, somebody wanted 
 her, every moment of the day. Is n't that worth 
 anything ? Nobody wants me, except when they want 
 to be amused perhaps. Why, Miss Gilmore! My 
 friend Mary has made her life something 'worth 
 while' twice over what mine is." 
 
 "You really believe that?" Sister Sue turned 
 now as she asked the question a dawning some- 
 thing in her eyes that was quite new. 
 
 "Of course I mean it! Why, child! Look at what 
 she has done ! A crippled mother loved and cared for 
 till the end. A father saved from drink and I hap- 
 pen to know he was saved. A family of harum-scarum
 
 290 SISTER SUE 
 
 boys and girls kept together and reared to be honest, 
 self-respecting members of society; and now their 
 children being helped into the same path. A work 
 done that nobody else in the world could have done 
 under the circumstances. True ! She did n't paint 
 the pictures she had wanted to paint. But the pic- 
 tures she did paint are living pictures not dead 
 canvases hung upon a wall for critics to wrangle and 
 squabble over about perspectives and colorings and 
 technique ! And, perhaps you '11 say it was a sacrifice, 
 but fl would prefer the word opportunity in this 
 case." 
 
 "Opportunity?" Sister Sue's doubtful repetition 
 of the word made it a question. 
 
 "Yes. Opportunity to make her life really 'worth 
 while,'" emphasized the lady with a meaning smile. 
 "Of course, if there had been no crippled mother, or 
 weak-kneed father, or harum-scarum children who 
 needed her, why, then let her paint her pictures. But 
 when she calls her life * barren ' well, I 'm going to 
 write to my friend Mary and see if I can convince her 
 of her blindness of being needed!" 
 
 "Needed needed ! " Sister Sue echoed the words 
 just above her breath. 
 
 "The very greatest blessing there is, as we who are 
 not needed know only too well. If some one needs 
 you, you are happy, indeed. But I am not needed 
 now. Once I had duties, but I left them for the prize 
 of greatness, and the prize of greatness has burned to 
 ashes in my hands." And the great pianist bowed her 
 head in her hands and sobbed.
 
 THE LIFE WORTH WHILE 291 
 
 "Needed!" It was the triumphant cry of one who 
 has made a sudden joyous decision. Sister Sue was 
 on her feet, her face alight. 
 
 "Will you would you please tell Signor Bar- 
 toni that that I suddenly found I must change 
 my plans? Tell him I will write and explain. I I 
 don't want to talk to him just now. Please?" And 
 Sister Sue was gone. 
 
 Ten minutes later the music-master came out from 
 the inner room with his pupil. 
 
 "Mees Gilmore? She has gone? " He questioned 
 in surprise as he turned back into the room after bow- 
 ing his pupil through the outer door. 
 
 "Yes. She left a message for you. She said to tell 
 you that suddenly she found she must change her 
 plans. She will write and explain. She did n't want 
 to stop to talk now." 
 
 "Good!" The Signor threw up both hands and 
 spoke with surprising vehemence. "I did not want to 
 talk also ! I am glad she is gone ! I have been 
 dreading all thees time to come back into thees 
 room to see her." 
 
 With a gesture of despair he rolled his eyes heaven- 
 ward. Then, at his visitor's obvious look of amaze- 
 ment, he shrugged his shoulders and explained. 
 
 "You are surprised. I spoke plain too plain, 
 maybe. But I was much distressed. Mees Gilmore 
 she play beautifully once, but not now. Her 
 touch her fire her poise, all gone. She has been 
 too tired too busy to practice all these years, 
 five, six yes, six I think it is. Her father's busi-
 
 292 SISTER SUE 
 
 ness it what do you call it went smash. 
 And his brain that went smash, too, but all these 
 years he lives. He lives and Mees Gilmore she 
 do everything cook, nurse, teach music, take care 
 of everything, everybody. Of course she could not 
 practice that could not be expected. But to-day 
 she comes. Her father is dead, her family married. 
 She is free and she thinks again to step right in, 
 where she was years ago, and become now the great 
 arteest as she could once have been." 
 
 "Oh !" breathed the lady, a great light of under- 
 standing on her face. "I think I begin to see." 
 
 "So she comes and plays to me. And I I 
 cannot tell her the truth Not with her shining 
 eyes begging me, beseeching me But it would be a 
 pitee and a cr-rime to let her go on and on, thinking 
 one day she will arrive She will never arrive 
 now It is too late. But I cannot tell her I can- 
 not." 
 
 "You won't have to," smiled the woman who had 
 told Sister Sue that the greatest blessing in all the 
 world was to be needed by some one. "You won't have 
 to; I'm sure you won't. She will write to you, and 
 she will tell you that she has changed her mind. She 
 does not want to be the great pianist." 
 
 "Thank Heaven ! Let us hope you speak the truth," 
 breathed the music-master fervently.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE OPPORTUNITY 
 
 THE Lorings were very much astonished to have 
 Sister Sue tell them she was going back to Gilmore- 
 ville right away. They were more astonished when 
 she told them that she had decided, after all, not to go 
 on with her music just at present. 
 
 Mr. Loring only smiled and said a polite something 
 that meant nothing, and let the matter pass. But 
 Mrs. Loring was not so easily satisfied. She seized 
 the first opportunity, when they were alone together, 
 to induce the girl to tell her more about it. 
 
 "Did that horrid man say bad things to you?" she 
 began. 
 
 "Why, no indeed ! Not a thing," laughed Sister Sue. 
 
 "But you played to him?" 
 
 "Yes, oh, yes. And he was perfectly lovely to me 
 and seemed so interested! But another pupil had al- 
 ready come and so he asked me to wait till after she 
 had gone. Then he would talk to me. But I did n't 
 wait." 
 
 "You did n't wait?" 
 
 "Not till he came out, no. I I got to thinking. 
 May is going to need me very much this summer. And 
 Gordon, too, really needs me. I think I '11 go to them." 
 
 "And keep on sacrificing yourself! Oh, yes, of 
 course!" commented Mrs. Loring with rising indigna- 
 tion.
 
 294 SISTER SUE 
 
 Sister Sue laughed again. Then suddenly her eyes 
 grew luminous. A deeper color came to her face. 
 
 "Somebody once, that I heard, called it oppor- 
 tunity, not sacrifice. Don't you think it would be 
 lovely if we could think of it like that, Mrs. Loring?" 
 she asked, a little shyly. 
 
 "Opportunity'! Humph!" fumed Mrs. Loring, 
 although plainly softening against her will. "Well, 
 you've found your 'opportunity,' all right!" 
 
 Sister Sue only smiled and shook her head. But 
 there was still in her eyes the wondrous glow as she 
 hurried away to do her packing. 
 
 Just as Sister Sue was leaving the house the next 
 morning the mail came and there were two letters 
 for her. One from May the other from Gordon. 
 Slipping them unopened into her bag, she left them to 
 be read when she should get all established in her seat 
 on the train. But though unread they were not for- 
 gotten. All the way to the station they lay, as if 
 lead, in her bag and on her mind. 
 
 "If only they had n't come to-day!" she sighed to 
 herself. "Oh, I hate so to read them to-day, when 
 after all I'm going back to them." 
 
 She knew what was in them, of course. They 
 were the first letters she had received since she had 
 written her brother and sister declining to accept a 
 home with them, and telling them she was going to 
 Boston to take up her long-neglected music again. 
 She could imagine just about what each would say. 
 
 Gordon's letter would be short and crisp and cut- 
 ting. His opinion would be expressed energetically,
 
 THE OPPORTUNITY 295 
 
 and when she had read his letter there would be no 
 doubt in her mind as to his opinion of her and her 
 "crazy notion" as she knew he would call it. There 
 would, too, probably be a caustic statement to the 
 effect that of course that would n't count with her any 
 more than they themselves, or their wishes, counted, or 
 the fact that they had offered her a home with them 
 the best they had. This would be Gordon's letter. 
 
 May's letter would be longer. It would tell of Mar- 
 tin's continued ill-luck with "Blixie," and of Martia's 
 fretf ulness and exactingness. It would tell of her own 
 ill feelings and despondency and of the extra amount 
 of hard work she had to do now that they had moved 
 out of the city, when really by good rights she should 
 be in bed with a nurse to wait upon her. At the end, 
 perhaps as a P.S., she would say, plaintively, that she 
 was sure she hoped Sister Sue would have a pleasant 
 time enjoying herself in Boston if she could enjoy 
 herself when all the time she would know that her 
 only sister was simply pining away for the want of the 
 strength and comfort and courage that her dear Sister 
 Sue's presence would give her. This would be May's 
 letter. And Sister Sue wanted to read it only a degree 
 less than she wanted to read Gordon's. 
 
 "If only they hadn't come to-day!" she sighed 
 again and again to herself. "If only I could have 
 written to them that I was going to them, first to one, 
 then to the other, before their letters to me came 
 scolding and complaining and blaming me it would 
 have been easier. But now " 
 
 Steeling herself for the inevitable, however, Sister
 
 296 SISTER SUE 
 
 Sue resolutely took the letters from her bag. Holding 
 them in her hands, she hesitated. Should she read 
 Gordon's, or May's, first? Did she prefer to be 
 smartly slapped, or to be pricked with countless little 
 pin-thrusts first? After all, a slap was benumbing - 
 in a way. It might dull the hurt of the pricks, she 
 reflected, as with a little shrug she dropped May's 
 letter back into the bag and slipped a hatpin under 
 the flap of the other envelope. 
 
 With a resigned sigh she took out the letter and be- 
 gan to read, but, at the first line after the salutation, 
 she suddenly stiffened into astonished attention. 
 
 DEAR Sis: [ran the letter.] Bully for you! I say. Go in 
 and win! And here's the best of luck to you! Telegraph 
 me the date of your first concert and I '11 be there and blister 
 my hands with the biggest clap the old hall (wherever it is) 
 ever heard. And, while I 'm about it, just let me say that I 
 don't know of any one who deserves success more than you. 
 I'm not much on letter-writing, Sis, and I can't sling ink 
 like my esteemed brother-in-law, but I wish I did know 
 how to say how much I appreciate all you Ve done for us all 
 these years taking care of Father; taking care of May 
 and me; taking care of the home; taking care of every- 
 thing and anything but yourself. But I don't know how, 
 so there's no use trying, I suppose. But for once I wish I 
 could sling ink like Martin, then I 'd make you see how I feel. 
 However, here 's where I hope you get your innings, Sister 
 Sue! And I hope you make a home run! In all of which 
 Mabel joins me only she says she does n't know what a 
 home run is. And, by the way, Mabel says she wishes she 
 could thank you, too, for all you've done for her, which, 
 she says, is a whole lot and a great deal more than you '11 
 ever know. 
 
 Your affectionate brother GORDON
 
 THE OPPORTUNITY 297 
 
 "Why! Bless the dear boy's heart!" breathed 
 Sister Sue, trying to blink off the tears before her 
 fellow-travelers saw them. "And when I was think- 
 ing I almost wish now I 'd saved him till the last." 
 
 Still blinking and trying to swallow the lump in her 
 throat, Sister Sue put Gordon's letter back into her 
 bag and took out her sister May's. Again as she be- 
 gan to read did she stiffen into astonished attention. 
 
 MY DEAR SISTER: [May had written.] Your letter telling 
 us your plans came duly to hand, and you don't know how 
 glad I am that you are going to Boston to take up your 
 beloved music again. And you will succeed; I know you 
 will succeed. And we shall all be so proud of you! 
 
 And I am so glad that after all these years your chance 
 has come at last. I am afraid you have thought sometimes 
 it never would come, you poor dear. And I am afraid you 
 have thought sometimes we were pretty selfish and thought- 
 less, to let you take all the burden and care off our shoul- 
 ders, for that's exactly what you have done all these years, 
 dear Sister. I am afraid you sometimes thought, too, that 
 we did n't appreciate it ; and I know we have n't half ap- 
 preciated what you have done for us all that time. As I 
 think of it now, and look back on it, I am ashamed to 
 think how little I have realized what a lot you were giving 
 up for us all the time. But now that you are really going 
 and are to take up your own work, I guess we shall begin 
 to know and understand and appreciate, all right! You 
 know you never miss the water till the well runs dry, and I 
 suppose we never should have known what a big place 
 Sister Sue filled in our lives if she just had n't walked out 
 and left the big gaping hole ! But we shall know it now, all 
 right! And I was thinking only the other day, why! just 
 what you did for Father was wonderful ! To say nothing of 
 all the watchful care you had of us! And I do hope that 
 now you can get a little reward. And you will get it in your
 
 98 SISTER SUE 
 
 music. And to think I had the face to ask you to come and 
 live with me, and keep right on doing for us, when all the 
 time you had only just been waiting for a little freedom to 
 go and live your own life as you wanted to! But I shan't 
 again I '11 promise. And I am just as glad as glad can 
 be that you are going to Boston and to your beloved music 
 again. Now write and tell me all about it and every- 
 thing you are doing we shall be so interested. And after 
 you get all fixed I '11 want to run into the city and see how 
 you look. And we wish you the best of success now and 
 always. Don't worry about us don't worry a bit. Just 
 enjoy yourself for once if you can ! 
 
 Always your loving sister 
 
 MAY 
 
 "Why! what what can have happened to them 
 both?" thought Sister Sue as, with excited fingers, 
 she dropped May's letter into the bag with Gordon's. 
 "What can have happened to them?" She was still 
 trying to blink away the tears, but her eyes behind 
 the tears were now shining with a light never in them 
 before. 
 
 It was on that same afternoon that Donald Ken- 
 dall, in Gilmoreville, sharply rang the Gilmores' front- 
 door bell. A moment later he stepped into the still 
 hall in response to Mrs. Preston's invitation. 
 
 "Come right back into my room, please, Mr. 
 Kendall," she directed him. " There ain't none of this 
 part of the house open, ye know." 
 
 "Miss Gilmore is away, I take it, then," said the 
 man as he sat down, with obvious impatience, in the 
 chair Mrs. Preston offered him. 
 
 "Yes, sir."
 
 THE OPPORTUNITY 299 
 
 "When did she go? if I may ask," the latter 
 words added as a somewhat ungracious afterthought. 
 
 "Why, just last week, Mr. Kendall. Monday, I 
 think." Into the old lady's eyes had crept a curious 
 twinkle, not at all the sort of look one would have 
 expected in response to the unmistakable irritability 
 of the questioner. 
 
 "When is she coming back? " (There was not even 
 the ungracious afterthought this time.) 
 
 The old lady hesitated. Then, as if weighing each 
 word, she said slowly: 
 
 "Well, she didn't say when she left except 
 that 't would be quite a while, probably. Ye know 
 she went down to Boston, to do her music again." 
 
 "No. I did n't know," snapped the man. 
 
 Once again into the old lady's eyes crept the cu- 
 rious twinkle, but her voice was still quiet, non- 
 committal. 
 
 "Well, she did. Oh, they offered her a home with 
 them, her brother and sister " 
 
 "Did they?" cut in the man sarcastically. 
 
 "Yes." The old lady was not looking at him now. 
 She was carefully smoothing out a wrinkle across 
 her knee. "They were very kind. They said that 
 she need n't feel beholden to 'em at all or call it 
 charity, that she could do enough for her board an' 
 keep." 
 
 "Charity! Board and keep! Good Heavens!" ex- 
 ploded the man. 
 
 "Yes, sir." Mrs. Preston's eyes were still on the 
 wrinkle she was smoothing. "But, as I said, she
 
 300 SISTER SUE 
 
 did n't go to them. She went to Boston to do her 
 music." 
 
 "Can you blame her?" 
 
 "N-no. Perhaps not. Still, if 't was ter marry, 
 now, an' go into a home of her own " She let her 
 sentence hang unfinished in the air. 
 
 "Miss Gilmore is not the marrying kind." The 
 words were uttered in a voice that was a cross be- 
 tween a growl and a groan. 
 
 "How do ye know?" 
 
 "Wh-what?" The man turned sharply. But the 
 little old lady met his eyes with serene unconcern. 
 "Why, I I don't know." 
 
 "I thought as much." 
 
 Again the man threw a sharp glance into the old 
 lady's face and again the little old lady met the 
 glance with serene unconcern. The man jerked him- 
 self about in his chair. 
 
 "But I'm sure of it," he frowned. "I know that 
 she has wanted to go on with her music in Boston. 
 Look at her now. That 's where she 's gone, is n't it? " 
 
 "Yes. She went." 
 
 "Well! There's the proof for you. Miss Gilmore 
 does not wish to marry." 
 
 "Did ye ever ask her?" 
 
 "Did I " The man stopped, and got to his feet 
 abruptly, his face dark with anger. But the little old 
 lady was still smiling straight into his eyes. 
 
 "Well, why don't ye?" she queried imperturbably. 
 Then, before he could carry out his very evident in- 
 tention of leaving the room, she said with a brisk
 
 THE OPPORTUNITY 301 
 
 change of manner: "Come, come, Donald Kendall. 
 Come back and sit down. I 've got something ter say 
 ter you something ye want ter hear, too." 
 
 At the door the man paused irresolutely, his hand 
 on the knob. 
 
 "Come, come!" reiterated the little old lady. "Ye 
 don't mind an old woman like me, an old woman that 
 fed ye cookies when ye was six little cookies with 
 seeds in 'em. An' ye did like them cookies, Donald 
 Kendall ! Now, come back an' sit down." 
 
 With a short laugh and a gesture of angry resigna- 
 tion, the man turned and came back to his chair. 
 
 "Mrs. Preston, you are incorrigible. I don't know 
 why, I am sure, that I come back or why I have 
 listened to you even as long as I have. I 've been on 
 the point of leaving a dozen times in the last five 
 minutes," he finished crossly. 
 
 "/ know why ye come back," nodded the little old 
 lady, her shrewd eyes on his face; "ye ain't the big 
 man now the big fiddler that everybody claps 
 an' yells at. Ye 're jes' the little boy I used ter know, 
 an' ye 're hopin' I 've got another cooky for ye, an* 
 well, I have." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Donald Kendall, seein* as ye do love her, why 
 don't ye ask her ter marry ye? Oh, now, don't bristle 
 up," she smoothed him hurriedly, as he started to 
 rise to his feet; "ye ain't goin' ter mind an old woman 
 like me." 
 
 He fell back in his chair and turned his head 
 away.
 
 302 SISTER SUE 
 
 "How do you know I I love her? " he asked in a 
 muffled voice. 
 
 "My sakes! How do I know ye've got a nose on 
 your face or hair on your head. As if a man could 
 spend every minute he had over here playin' with a 
 pretty girl an' not love her!" 
 
 "We were were practicing, Mrs. Preston." He 
 spoke with cold dignity. 
 
 "Sure ye were! I've seen that kind of practicin' 
 before." 
 
 The man shrugged his shoulders irritably. 
 
 "Well! Well, suppose I do," he snapped. 
 "What, then? She has gone to Boston, has n't she? 
 My proof still holds good! As I happen to know, 
 Miss Gilmore's one great desire in life for many years 
 has been to go on with her music. Well she is now 
 going on with it. What more proof do you want?" 
 
 With a low chuckle the little old lady thrust her 
 hand into the pocket of her apron. 
 
 "I think maybe ye'd like the cooky now," 
 she said, taking out a yellow envelope and handing it 
 to him. 
 
 "Why what " 
 
 "Read it. It jes' came this noon." 
 
 A minute later he looked up with puzzled eyes. 
 
 "From Miss Gilmore. But she says she is com- 
 ing back," he stammered. 
 
 "This afternoon. Yes." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 With a funny little shrug the old lady threw him a 
 sidelong glance.
 
 THE OPPORTUNITY 303 
 
 "She didn't say. An' I don't say either. / 
 don't know. But if I was a great big six-foot man, 
 right here on the spot an' wanted ter find out, I'd 
 find out." 
 
 With a hearty laugh the man sprang quickly to his 
 feet. His face had cleared. He looked suddenly alert 
 happy sure of himself. 
 
 "Granny Preston, you're a wonder! I will find 
 out ! You need n't tell her, but I '11 be over this 
 evening to to 'practice." 1 
 
 "That's the talk! It'll be all warm in there in 
 her room. My husband 's goin' ter start the furnace 
 right away. Good-bye, an' good luck ter ye." 
 
 "Thanks!" The man closed the door behind him. 
 Then he opened it again to poke in his head boyishly. 
 
 "Oh I say! I'm much obliged, Granny Preston, 
 for the cooky," he laughed. Then the door snapped 
 shut. 
 
 At six o'clock Sister Sue arrived. Leaping flames 
 in the big old fireplace of the living-room gave her a 
 welcome no less cordial than the one Mrs. Preston 
 bestowed upon her. And the biscuits and maple 
 syrup rounded out a supper that made Sister Sue 
 quite forget the long, cold ride up from Boston. 
 
 Mrs. Preston asked no questions, nor did she even 
 have much to say when, after supper, Sister Sue com- 
 menced a little diffidently : 
 
 "You see, I I've changed my plans, Mrs. Pres- 
 ton. I I am going to live with May, and Gordon, 
 whichever one needs me the most needs me, you 
 know. I had two beautiful letters from them to-day."
 
 304 SISTER SUE 
 
 "Yes, yes. Well, is that so?" murmured Mrs. 
 Preston, who had been keeping a nervous eye on the 
 clock for ten minutes past. "Well, I'm glad, if they 
 wrote ye nice letters, I 'm sure. But never mind that, 
 now. Ye can tell me all about it to-morrow. You jes' 
 go inter the sittin'-room an' rest, an' My land ! 
 If there ain't the bell this minute. Now, who do you 
 s'pose that can be? "she dissembled as she hurried 
 into the front hall. 
 
 In the living-room, a minute later, Sister Sue was 
 greeting Mr. Donald Kendall. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Kendall! You?" she cried. 
 
 And Mrs. Preston, catching a delighted glimpse 
 of the quick color that flew to the girl's face, took her- 
 self out of the room with swift steps and a joyous 
 chuckling all to herself. 
 
 "Yes. I came on for a couple of days' stay," said 
 the man as the door closed behind Mrs. Preston. "I 
 heard this afternoon you were to be here to-night, so 
 I came over. You don't mind? I did n't bring my 
 violin I feared you'd be too tired to play." 
 
 "I'm glad to see you," said Sister Sue. And be- 
 cause it seemed as if he must hear the quick beating 
 of her heart, and read aright what she felt was a tell- 
 tale color in her cheeks, she began to talk very fast of 
 what he had been doing. 
 
 They spoke then of her father. And Donald Ken- 
 dall said a few low words of sympathy, of his un- 
 derstanding of what all those years had meant to 
 her and to her father. And, as he talked, it seemed 
 to Sister Sue that it was a new Donald Kendall
 
 THE OPPORTUNITY 305 
 
 a different Donald Kendall there before her; a 
 Donald Kendall with all the old charm, but with a 
 softened, chastened something about him that dou- 
 bled that charm and quite did away with his old 
 imperious, disagreeable manner. She caught herself 
 wondering if it were the Beth who sang or the Helen 
 who painted that had brought about this wondrous 
 change. Then, as she was wondering, she suddenly 
 became aware of his asking her a question. 
 
 "But yourself. You have told me nothing of 
 your own plans. You are are you going back to 
 Boston?" 
 
 She shook her head. There was a moment's hesi- 
 tation, then she spoke. 
 
 "No. You remember perhaps you do not re- 
 member but I I told you, once, that sometime 
 I was going back to my music, if I could, and and 
 study for the concert stage." 
 
 "Yes, I remember." He had turned away his face, 
 His voice sounded a little harsh. 
 
 "Well, I after Father went and I was alone I 
 thought the time had come, and I decided to go. 
 I went to Boston. I even went so far as to play to 
 Signer Bartoni." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then something never mind what made me 
 change my mind, and I came home." 
 
 He turned toward her quickly, his face alight. 
 
 "You mean that you have given up all idea of 
 going on with your music?" he demanded eagerly. 
 
 "Yes, and "
 
 306 SISTER SUE 
 
 "You mean that? You know you mean it? " he cut 
 in eagerly. 
 
 "Why, yes. Yes, I do," she repeated, her startled 
 eyes questioning him a little. 
 
 "Thank Heaven, then!" he breathed fervently. 
 "That frees me. I can ask you now for myself . lean 
 plead with you to come with me " 
 
 But she stopped him with her hand upraised. She 
 had grown very white. 
 
 "No, no. Please! Don't ask me. You don't under- 
 stand. I am going to live with Gordon and May. 
 That is why I came back, Mr. Kendall. They need 
 me so much." 
 
 "They need you! Well, how about my needing 
 you?" It was unmistakably the old Donald Kendall 
 who said this. The imperious, not-in-the-habit-of- 
 being-denied Donald Kendall. So much so that Sis- 
 ter Sue, even perturbed and distressed as she was, 
 caught herself thinking that, after all, the Beth who 
 sang or the Helen who painted had not made so 
 thorough a job of it. 
 
 "Oh, no! No! No! I could n't go with you!" she 
 cried shudderingly. 
 
 In Sister Sue's distracted vision was a picture of 
 herself, trailing from place to place, playing accom- 
 paniments for this man, who would, of course by 
 that time, be married to a Beth who sang or a Helen 
 who painted. To Sister Sue it was a bitter, cruel 
 picture, unendurable even to think of, and her terror 
 at it showed unmistakably in her face and voice as 
 she repeated quiveringly :
 
 THE OPPORTUNITY 307 
 
 "I couldn't go with you, Mr. Kendall. Oh, I 
 could n't." 
 
 Before the abject horror in her face the man fell 
 back dismayed. His own face grew white. 
 
 "But if I could make you see what it means to me 
 - 1 would wait I 'd be willing to wait if you 
 thought that only sometime " His voice broke 
 and he fell silent. 
 
 "But but it couldn't be ever," she faltered 
 with dry lips. "I don't seem to have made you 
 understand. I have given up my music as a pub- 
 lic profession, I mean. I could n't play for you, 
 and" 
 
 "Play for me ! " He had been walking up and down 
 the room. He wheeled now and faced her his 
 face a blank of incomprehension. Then suddenly his 
 countenance changed as with a flood of light. "For 
 Heaven's sake, girl! What do you think I've been 
 asking you to do?" he demanded. 
 
 It was Sister Sue's turn to fall back, her face show- 
 ing almost consternation. 
 
 "Why, to to play your accompaniments on 
 your concert tours, as you asked me to before," she 
 stammered. "Was n't that what you meant?" 
 
 "Well, no, it wasn't." A curious mixture of 
 emotions was struggling for expression on the man's 
 face. Relief, doubt, hope, fear; they were all there. 
 "I was trying to ask you to be my wife." 
 
 "Wife? Why, I I thought the Beth who sang 
 or the Helen who " At the sudden flame of a joyous 
 something that flashed into his face she stopped short
 
 308 SISTER SUE 
 
 and turned quite away. SEe had suddenly realized 
 what her words must have implied. 
 
 He was at her side instantly. "As if all the Beths 
 or Helens that ever grew could be compared for one 
 minute with you ! Why, dear, I Ve wanted you it 
 seems now as if I 'd wanted you always not to play 
 for me, though you will play for me sometimes, I 
 know, but to be with me always. I need you, I 
 
 At the word need she turned at the same time 
 drawing away a little. 
 
 "No, no. Oh, I forgot. How could I have for- 
 gotten? I am going to May and Gordon. They need 
 me. That is why I came back to " 
 
 But he would n't let her finish. He laughed, he 
 stormed, he pleaded. He was masterful and beseech- 
 ing by turns. He told her of the long, long months 
 when he had kept away from her because he loved 
 her too well to be with her and still know that he 
 could not have her. He told her how he had made up 
 his mind that never, never would he stand in the way 
 of her accomplishing her dreamed-of career if the 
 chance ever came to her. And when her father died 
 and the chance did come, he told her he thought he 
 was then going to be brave and stay away. 
 
 "But I couldn't stay away," he declared. "I 
 could n't. I had to come. I was in torture. All day I 
 thought of you, and all night I dreamed of you. From 
 away out West I turned my face toward the east - 
 to Vermont where you were, dear. Right and left I 
 canceled my engagements. I had to know whether or 
 not you were going to take up your music.
 
 THE OPPORTUNITY 309 
 
 "Then to-day, when I came, I found you gone. 
 Little girl, if you could have seen my heart at that 
 moment the blackness of despair. I knew then 
 how much I had hoped from my journey." 
 
 "But you must have found right away that I was 
 coming to-night." 
 
 "I did. And right away I was in the Seventh 
 Heaven of hope again. Surely, darling, after all that, 
 you're going to give me my reward?" 
 
 "But what can I do about Gordon and May?" 
 
 He drew himself up into stern uncompromisingness. 
 
 "Now, look here, 'Sister Sue' yes, I am calling 
 you that on purpose; it's a dear name, and you'll be 
 'Sister Sue' to all of us as long as you live you 
 have given that blessed brother and sister of yours 
 just er just twenty-five years of your life. 
 That 's May's age, if I mistake not. And that 's 
 enough. It is time you gave more thought to I was 
 going to say to yourself, but of course you won't do 
 that Sister Sues never think of themselves so I 
 will say it is time you sacrificed for me for a while. 
 Let me have what / want, and / want you" 
 
 Sister Sue's eyes were luminous. An adorable color 
 stole to her cheeks. 
 
 "Oh, just thai wouldn't be any sacrifice! That 
 is I mean " she began to correct herself hastily. 
 But it was too late. With one triumphant sweep he 
 had her hi his arms. 
 
 Later some time later when, a little breath- 
 lessly, she was smoothing back her ruffled hair and 
 rearranging her rumpled collar, she said:
 
 310 SISTER SUE 
 
 "Of course, it is n't as if as if Gordon and May 
 would n't be be Well, I had some beautiful 
 letters from them just to-day about their wanting me 
 to be happy in my own way." 
 
 Donald Kendall sniffed his disdain with the supe- 
 riority of one who looked down from the height of a 
 goal attained. 
 
 "Oh, no doubt. I understand and fully appreciate 
 the kind solicitude of Brother Gordon and Sister 
 May. But all the same, whether they permit or not, 
 I want them and you to understand that, from now 
 henceforth and forevermore, you are going to be my 
 * Sister Sue." 1 Then, with a low, tender laugh, he 
 breathed: "'Sister' Sue is no more, but now," as he 
 drew her into his arms, "my wife, Sue." 
 
 THE END
 
 CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
 U . S . A
 
 A 000 127 125 3