THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 P. Lennox Tierney
 
 .x"*
 
 CORRIE WHO?

 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 BY 
 
 MAXIMILIAN FOSTER 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 GEORGE BREHM 
 
 BOSTON 
 SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 
 
 1908
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1908 
 
 Small, rtbavnarD & Company 
 
 (INCORPORATED) 
 
 Entered at Stationers' Hall 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. 8. A.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAOE 
 
 I. THE CURTAIN RISES 1 
 
 II. BROWN, SMITH AND ROBINSON .... 25 
 
 III. MRS. PlNCHIN AND MlSS MARIA ... 49 
 
 IV. THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN BLINDS . 66 
 V. MRS. PINCHIN'S HOMECOMING .... 84 
 
 VI. MR. BlGGAMORE AND HIS GARDEN . . 97 
 
 VII. THE REBUFF COURTEOUS 110 
 
 VIII. OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS 126 
 
 IX. THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN . 150 
 
 X. YOUNG LOVE 178 
 
 XI. ENTER Miss FREEDLARK 211 
 
 XII. THE POT OF DAMSON JAM 229 
 
 XIII. THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS .... 254 
 
 XIV. MRS. PINCHIN'S THREAT 285 
 
 XV. KIDNAPPED FROM MRS. PINCHIN'S . . . 301 
 
 XVI. MR. BIGGAMORE MOPS HIS BROW . . . 324 
 
 XVIJ. THE RETURN TO MRS. PINCHIN'S . . . 341 
 
 XVIII. PHIL AND HIS SINGULAR UNCLE . . 356 
 
 S1 
 O *
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAO-E 
 
 XIX. THE STOLEN PAPERS 380 
 
 XX. MRS. PINCHIN'S WINK 401 
 
 XXL Miss MARIA DETERMINES 414 
 
 XXII. THE STORY OF MARGARET TOLLAEEE . 433 
 
 XXIII. Miss MARIA ENDS HER TALE .... 456 
 
 XXIV. THE TABLEAU IN THE DRAWING-ROOM . 473
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Corrie Frontispiece 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 " Well, heard anything ? " murmured Mr. Stanton, 
 
 lightly 12 
 
 " Stop ! " said Corrie, firmly. Stop, Mrs. Pinchin ! " 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin stopped, gaping and dumbfounded 90 
 
 Then, before she had dreamed of it, her face turned 
 
 itself up to his, her eyes suffused with tears . . 208 
 
 " You see what I 'm driving at. The long and short 
 of it is that I offer you a name and home, my 
 girl, something you 've never had before " . 428
 
 CORRIE WHO?
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 In which the curtain rises slowly on one of those singular 
 occasions, peculiar to New York City's West Side soci 
 ety. Mrs. Pinchin's Sunday evening at home. Her 
 guests and her curious poor relation, Miss Maria. The 
 suave and condescending Mr. Stanton, and his tolerant 
 condescension, entirely intolerable to the other guests. 
 Exit Mr. Stanton, and enter Philip Geikie. His in 
 terest in Miss Corrie Robinson, Mrs. Pinchin's paid 
 companion. The face in the doorway and Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's alarm. 
 
 PROMPTLY at eight o'clock on a Sunday evening 
 in the spring, the drawing-room at Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's in West 75th Street began to fill itself with 
 Mrs. Pinchin's guests. They came on foot, as a rule, 
 and it was astonishing how many among them ar 
 rived singly unattached men and unattended 
 women who, for some particular reason, seemed 
 neither to know one another well, or their hostess 
 either, for that matter. But this was always more or 
 less the case with these entertainments. Mrs. Pinchin 
 was an assiduous sociable ; and, after all, the manner 
 in which she had drummed her party together, and 
 filled her drawing-room to the walls, reflected no little 
 credit on her activities, her persistence, and her in 
 genious social enterprise. 
 1 1
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " So good of you to come," murmured Mrs. Pin- 
 chin to each newcomer, and then after a commonplace 
 or two, a hint about the weather, perhaps, or some 
 other observation equally reassuring, the guest was 
 introduced profusely to all within reach ; and there, 
 turned adrift among the others herded in the draw 
 ing-room, was required to expect no more from the 
 hostess. Usually this resulted in the person, either 
 male or female, coming to anchor in an attitude elo 
 quently awkward and ill at ease, embarrassed by 
 strangeness, and furtively on the lookout for some 
 familiar face; so that before the music began every 
 chair held its morose castaway, every corner its 
 anchorite. Others, unable to find chairs or a secluded 
 nook, stood around the room in postures of loneliness 
 varied by an occasional guilty survey of their neigh 
 bors, or a profound and prolonged study of the pic 
 tures on the wall. In time, each picture held its 
 devotee; and then each vase and bronze, like a mag 
 net, began to attract and attach to itself some soli 
 tary with a close and anxious regard of its merits. 
 " So good of you to come ! " murmured Mrs. Pinchin, 
 greeting a fresh arrival; and thus it continued, ex 
 actly in a fashion with all Mrs. Pinchin's evenings at 
 home. 
 
 The hostess was a large, heavy-featured person, a 
 faded woman almost the Jewess in type loose 
 jowled, dark and solemn, with a pair of eyes of the 
 most singular dullness peering between thick and 
 heavy lids. These and the deep puffs beneath them, 
 her flabby cheeks and the habitual droop of her 
 
 2
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES 
 
 mouth, gave to Mrs. Pinchin, in moments of repose, 
 an aspect of wistfulness a stolid, almost sullen 
 gravity. It was the look, in fact, that one sees in the 
 visages of large, dignified dogs the St. Bernard, for 
 instance, or, notably, the mastiff and in Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's face the likeness was accentuated by her droop 
 ing jaw and pouched and fallen cheeks. To bear out 
 the resemblance further, when she moved it was with 
 the utmost slowness and deliberation, her weight 
 borne heavily and with a great deal of ponderous 
 effort. A slight difficulty in her gait impeded her, a 
 little limp that was almost a hop ; and as she passed 
 among her guests Mrs. Pinchin leaned on a stick 
 that thwacked the floor like a blind man's. Occa 
 sionally, however, she discarded this support, and in 
 moving about relied entirely on the arm of her paid 
 companion, Miss Corrie Robinson, a young, plainly 
 dressed girl, who sat in the background until needed. 
 Miss Maria Pinchin, who was understood by Mrs. 
 Pinchin's acquaintances to be some sort of a poor 
 relation, sat there also, equally in the background, 
 but, unlike the companion, rarely required to come 
 forward. No one recalled having ever seen a Mr. 
 Pinchin, but this was overlooked in the inference that 
 Mrs. Pinchin had long been a widow. 
 
 Miss Maria resembled Mrs. Pinchin in no other 
 particular than the name. She was small and spare 
 in contrast to her patron's bigness, a wasted blonde 
 with the thin, straw-colored hair that, in place of 
 turning gray with years, grows to a lighter sorrel 
 instead; and dry and harsh, her locks were thinned 
 
 3
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 out on the temples and equally meager behind the 
 ears. One perceived at a glance her self-conscious 
 and uneasy manner an attribute so fluttering and 
 evasive that even to catch a single gleam from her 
 pale, watery eyes was enough to invite in her a per 
 fect convulsion of embarrassment. Thus effaced and 
 forgotten, she sat there silently in the background, 
 more alone than the most lonely of Mrs. Pinchin's 
 latest guests, never by any chance speaking unless 
 spoken to, and then strangling any effort at further 
 conversation by her agitated replies. Few interested 
 themselves, however, in Miss Maria's presence, and 
 the few that came often enough to Mrs. Pinchin's 
 drawing-room to be aware of the figure in the back 
 ground knew only that she wore Mrs. Pinchin's 
 discarded gowns, and withdrew soon after the en 
 tertainment was under way. 
 
 To describe Mrs. Pinchin's guests separately would 
 be difficult particularly difficult were one to con 
 sider their variety. Collectively, they appeared to 
 be of the class that infest the drawing-rooms of 
 women who have a purpose to achieve, one usually 
 social, but with little knowledge of how to effect it. 
 If Mrs. Pinchin aimed to enter society, it seemed cer 
 tain she must have knocked at many doors and 
 doors innumerably varied, too, for the night's guests 
 were no exception to the general sort that attended 
 her entertainments. In mass, they seemed to bulk 
 somewhat on the ordinary; though singly, one des 
 cried three or four individuals in whom there were 
 suggestions not entirely limited to the social or the 
 
 4
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES 
 
 deliberate struggle to obtain it. For instance, there 
 leaned against the mantel-piece in an attitude of the 
 utmost dejection, a Mr. Alfuente, a lean, rumpled 
 person with an oily, dissatisfied face. To use an ex 
 pression, he was one of the lions of the evening, a 
 usual type of the performer, notable, poseur, grubbed 
 up by Mrs. Pinchin to give her evenings a tone. In 
 fact, he was a musician or so it was proclaimed ; 
 but what his abilities were, or what claim he had to 
 genius, few of those present, beside Mr. Alfuente 
 himself, were in the least way possessed of the facts. 
 Close beside him stood a tall, angular woman very 
 much overdressed in a low-cut, yellow gown, a dress 
 draped with rivulets and cascades and waterfalls of 
 lace backed up by a whole nursery of artificial roses, 
 and supplied with a train swathed around her like the 
 drapery of a Galatea. Aside from this, she would 
 have been noticeable for the extreme width of her 
 mouth; for her bony, staring face, and for her 
 rabbit-like teeth, very much in evidence when she 
 smiled. This was Miss Mina Sutro Freedlark, a 
 lady who was known from her own account to have 
 cast before the public many pearls of Sapphic verse, 
 all keyed in the most passionate strain imaginable. 
 It was less generally understood, however, that Miss 
 Freedlark also contributed to a newspaper a column 
 that appeared apart from the recognized social in 
 telligence under the conciliating title of West Side 
 Society. Mrs. Pinchin's name stood regularly in 
 this budget, her entertainments invariably described 
 as functions, and the hostess as the " well-known 
 
 5
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 society leader." The two the poet-scribbler and the 
 hostess had met at one of the women's clubs which 
 Mrs. Pinchin occasionally attended as part of her 
 social enterprise; and the acquaintance, thus begun 
 and continued, had signaled Mrs. Pinchin's frequent 
 appearances in print. The advantage, however, was 
 not so one-sided as it may appear, for occasionally, 
 at Mrs. Pinchin's invitation, the poetess had been 
 suffered to regale the guests with selections from her 
 Sapphic verse, all of which were shortly to be pub 
 lished, or, more definitely speaking, when a publisher 
 that would undertake it had been decided on. Singu 
 larly enough, it was on this very topic that Miss 
 Freedlark addressed herself so exuberantly to Mr. 
 Alfuente, forestalling every effort at interruption, 
 and, oblivious of his growing dejection, drowning 
 him in a flood of speech. 
 
 Others of the same caste stood about. The sallow- 
 faced, pensive man with leonine hair Mrs. Pinchin 
 had introduced as " Mr. Luckison, the painter." He, 
 too, wore the same air of unprosperous discontent. 
 Moping in a further corner was another, a Mr. 
 Ailing, who worked in an uptown real-estate office, 
 and was known to have written a play, which a man 
 ager was now looking at, and at which other 
 managers previously had looked. In addition, there 
 were But why go on? Many such persons had 
 passed through the crucible of Mrs. Pinchin's 
 drawing-room painters, poets, writers, musicians, 
 a tragic actor, and an heroic actress or so, and once 
 even a turbaned Hindu pundit, fat and discreetly 
 
 6
 
 smug ; men and women of many varied degrees all 
 imminently on the point of doing something all 
 artistic, perhaps abnormally so aad all, for some 
 inexplicable reason, never quite making a success of 
 it. One and all, they had been brought there to Mrs. 
 Pinchin's at the first whisper of their genius; and 
 patiently tried out, either wearying or wearied, had 
 gone their way to return to her drawing-room no 
 more. But what mattered it? she never showed 
 discouragement. Others were called to fill the vacant 
 places ; others came all of the same expectant 
 class all suspected to be eminent all brought 
 to give her evenings a tone; so that in the round 
 of Mrs. Pinchin's drawing-room entertainments 
 one almost suspected the deliberate purpose of a 
 salon. 
 
 Of the ordinary guests less may be said. They 
 provided the crowd, perhaps, without which Mrs. 
 Pinchin would have thought her evening a failure; 
 and as a mass, they seemed to be made up of the type 
 of woman that belongs to many clubs; the men of 
 the order that belong to no clubs at all, or, perhaps, 
 a business club where they ate luncheon. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin sat down. She drew the folds of 
 her plum-colored brocade about her, and leaning 
 back negligently in the arms of a heavy and heavily 
 carved chair of black oak, waved imperiously to 
 her paid companion. 
 
 " Play ! " she commanded tersely. 
 
 The young girl thus directed arose and moved 
 7
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 quietly across the drawing-room. It was a large 
 apartment, richly furnished, though in no particular 
 tone or convention, its fittings indiscriminately echo 
 ing at least two or three decades of decoration. For 
 instance, one saw among its flotsam and jetsam the 
 black walnut relics of the '70's rubbing elbows with 
 the extreme, latter-day art of upholsterer and fur 
 nisher very highly varnished pieces of mahogany, 
 maple, cherry, oak, altogether too massive, on one 
 hand ; or, on the other, too fragile by far. But rich 
 ness prevailed dominantly richness in the hang 
 ings, in the upholstery of the furniture. Richness in 
 the profuse ornaments of porcelain, enamel and 
 brass. Richness in the rugs, the wallpaper, the 
 tinted ceiling. Richness even in the varnish of the 
 wainscot. One's eye became almost pained with its 
 lavishness. Too much lavishness. Too many pieces, 
 for example, of cloisonne, of Sevres, of Royal Worces 
 ter. Too many lamps and screens and fixtures of 
 too shiny brass and enamel. Too much onyx on too 
 many table tops. Too much satin upholstering, far, 
 far too fat and cushiony. Too much of everything. 
 Altogether too much! 
 
 Miss Robinson, the paid companion, edged her way 
 across the room, steering a difficult passage through 
 the channels between the furniture. In a corner near 
 a window stood the piano, a large, cumbersome grand 
 finished in the natural rosewood. It, too, cried opu 
 lence a fat-legged instrument, obese, pompous, 
 florid, and no more harmonizing with its companion 
 furnishings than it harmonized with the dingy, lam- 
 
 8
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES 
 
 entable dowdiness of the young woman who now sat 
 down to play on it. 
 
 She was a slender, delicately-featured girl, shad 
 owy-eyed and repressed. One might have thought 
 her about nineteen or twenty, though her quietness 
 and repose under the trying circumstances of her 
 position would have dignified a much older woman 
 and one of a far better place in life. As was the case 
 with Miss Maria, few of Mrs. Pinchin's random 
 guests ever troubled themselves with her presence; 
 and in saying this, one feels a suspicion that Miss 
 Robinson herself may have contributed to it by her 
 reserve and quiet aloofness. In moments of her 
 deepest repose, a look of real and intense wistfulness 
 sometimes crept into her face a pensive air al 
 together unlike Mrs. Pinchin's heavy-eyed, loose- 
 jowled moodiness; and then Miss Robinson seemed 
 to exist far away from the drawing-room, its lavish 
 opulence, and its atmosphere of persistent social ef 
 fort. Perhaps the reason why this was not more 
 generally remarked in her, was that few appear at 
 tractive or show off to advantage who drag back 
 their hair from the temples and wring it into a stiff, 
 ungainly knot like a housemaid's done up for the 
 morning. Still, this dowdiness and lack of personal 
 adornment, though it were even by design, could not 
 conceal the depth and animation of her eyes, once 
 they awoke. They were a dark hazel, fringed by 
 heavy lashes, and of that quietly reflective nature 
 that fasten upon whomever they study, as if weigh 
 ing every hidden fault and virtue with dispassionate 
 
 9
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 judgment. It was just such a glance that she turned 
 toward Mrs. Pinchin and her guests when she sat 
 down to play, nothing contemptuous in it, or in the 
 slightest way superior, but a clear-eyed, girlish look, 
 calm and reflective. Indeed, one might have thought 
 her more detached and lonely in the midst of Mrs. 
 Pinchin's rococo drawing-room than even Miss 
 Maria, or the most lonely of Mrs. Pinchin's guests. 
 Superficially, it was known that the girl had been 
 adopted very early in life, and that she had many 
 reasons to feel grateful to Mrs. Pinchin for what she 
 had done for her. One or two, who had felt embold 
 ened enough to ask about her parentage, had been 
 answered with an expressive shrug of Mrs. Pinchin's 
 shoulders and an embarrassing change in the topic. 
 Her father and mother? Mrs. Pinchin's shrug was, 
 indeed, definite. 
 
 " Play ! " said the hostess, imperiously waving her 
 hand; and as the girl turned over the music sheets, 
 the hangings parted and admitted another guest. 
 
 Here, at least, was one who seemed to have long 
 survived the trial of Mrs. Pinchin's evenings. A few 
 who had met him before knew him incompletely as 
 Mr. Stanton, a tall, well-formed, wiry man of an al 
 most military bearing, who wore the unmistakable, 
 though somewhat careless, evidences of breeding. He 
 still clung to the past fashion of side whiskers, and 
 these and his hawklike face and cool, steady eyes gave 
 to him a confident, distinguished air that was some 
 how lacking among the other guests, all of whom Mr. 
 Stanton treated with a patient, supercilious toler- 
 
 10
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES 
 
 ance, entirely intolerable to the victims. If he pos 
 sessed intimates or an occupation, the fact was un 
 known to Mrs. Pinchin's visitors, who felt only an 
 impartial dislike and awe in his presence. Smiling 
 slightly, and with a careless glance at the young 
 woman seated before the piano, Mr. Stanton walked 
 across the drawing-room and murmured a good even 
 ing, a greeting the hostess mutely acknowledged by 
 motioning to a chair at her side. 
 
 " Play, I tell you ! " she commanded a little 
 sharply, and the companion, averting her eyes, 
 struck into the bars of the Melodie in F. At the 
 same moment Miss Maria, her gaze fastened on the 
 newcomer, edged along the wall toward the doorway, 
 and, with a last agitated look around her, slipped 
 away through the hangings for the evening. 
 
 There was a perturbed expression on Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's face, a little troubled frown that knitted her 
 shaggy brows more closely together than before. It 
 was as if she pondered something fretfully, and that 
 Mr. Stanton's coming had contributed to it. If so, 
 however, Mr. Stanton affected to ignore her mood; 
 for, still smiling, he leaned toward her a moment 
 later, a quizzical expression on his face, though Mrs. 
 Pinchin's frown grew deeper. 
 
 " Well, heard anything? " murmured Mr. Stan- 
 ton, lightly. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin abruptly moved. " Hush ! " she re 
 monstrated, darting a quick, warning glance, and as 
 the smile widened on Mr. Stanton's lips, her irrita 
 tion grew with it. " Look here ! Why did you persist 
 
 11
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 in coming? " she demanded suddenly, her whisper 
 harsh and reproachful. " I 'm not going to do this 
 for you again. You know there 's nothing to be 
 gained by it, and " 
 
 Mr. Stanton smiled a little more broadly, a whim 
 sical, well-managed smile, mocking and careless. 
 " And everything to be lost, do you mean ? " he in 
 quired teasingly. " Tut ! tut ! don't be so uneasy." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin bit her lip, and with her head 
 averted, affected to listen to the music. But what 
 she had in her mind seemed to be of too much impor 
 tance to leave unsaid, and suddenly she shrugged her 
 shoulders. " You mark my words," she muttered 
 sullenly ; " we '11 live to be sorry for this ! There 's 
 nothing but sheer idiocy in your persistence! 
 There! " she exclaimed pointedly, as above the notes 
 of the piano the doorbell tinkled sharply. " There ! " 
 ejaculated Mrs. Pinchin, gnawing at her lips, and 
 bestowing many anxious glances at the doorway. 
 " Go now ! I say it 's madness." 
 
 " Oh, very well," murmured Mr. Stanton, in a 
 placating tone ; " if you feel that way about it." 
 
 Arising, he too glanced at the doorway, and 
 then, with a dry smile for Mrs. Pinchin, leisurely 
 threaded his way through the maze of guests and 
 furniture, as little concerned with the presence of one 
 as he was with the other. Thrusting aside the drap 
 ery in a distant corner, he threw one last look at 
 the piano, and then disappeared from view. 
 
 Directly on the heels of Mr. Stanton's departure 
 entered a young man of, say, twenty-five or twenty- 
 
 12
 
 Well, heard anything ? " murmured Mr. Stan ton, lightly.
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES 
 
 six. There was nothing particularly remarkable in 
 his appearance beyond a certain smartness of dress 
 and the way in which he smiled. It was one of 
 those rare smiles capable of lighting up even the 
 homeliest of countenances, and while the young man 
 was hardly to be called homely, on the other hand 
 one could scarcely term him handsome. A full in 
 ventory of his looks would include, besides the smile 
 and the air of smartness, the successive items of 
 good teeth, an alert figure, strong, well-shaped 
 hands, brown hair and eyes, and a pair of erect and 
 self-reliant shoulders, a pretty good description, 
 one might say, of any average, cleanly, self- 
 respecting fellow, tolerably certain of passing in a 
 crowd. He stood by the door until the music ended, 
 his eye, too, fixed on the girl who was playing, and 
 then, without any of the visible embarrassment that 
 marked so many of Mrs. Pinchin's other guests, 
 made his way across the room toward the hostess. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin was prepared against his coming. 
 Detaching her eyes from the curtains through which 
 Mr. Stanton had gone, she turned solemnly. " So 
 good of you to come, Mr. Geikie," she murmured, 
 ready with the set expression; and instantly the 
 faintest of smiles sprang to Mr. Geikie's lips. 
 
 " So good of you to have me," he retorted 
 promptly, so readily that Mrs. Pinchin narrowed 
 her heavy eyes at him, as if she suspected Mr. Geikie 
 of poking fun at her with a set echo for her ready- 
 made, habitual greeting. But the young man's smile 
 whimsical, merry, almost quizzical had in- 
 
 13
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 stantly departed; and Mrs. Pinchin, being unable 
 to detect anything in his manner less than the defer 
 ence due her as a hostess, resumed her usual dull air 
 of complacency and waved him to a chair at 
 her side. 
 
 " Be seated," she bade him in her thick, mannish 
 voice; and then she looked slowly around the room, 
 her mouth set in its usual solemn droop. 
 
 At the piano the companion, with her eyes down 
 cast, intently turned the sheets of music. There 
 was a faint color in her face and her brow was puck 
 ered in a little frown. The majority of the guests, 
 their eyes shifting between her and the hostess, 
 waited expectantly for whatever else was on the 
 program; and near the mantel-piece Miss Freedlark 
 still poised herself. The poetess was alone, for at 
 the beginning of the music, Mr. Alfuente had seized 
 his opportunity to escape. Now and naturally 
 as one of the cognoscenti, perhaps he had gravi 
 tated to the piano, and leaning on the edge of it, 
 was slowly twirling his moustache at Mrs. Pinchin's 
 companion. One would not have said that his velvet 
 eyes stared openly; but the fact remains that the 
 girl might have been embarrassed by such close at 
 tention had she taken the pains to look at him. 
 Why the musician had selected so obscure a victim 
 for his blandishments remains untold, however, un 
 less, perhaps, he had been smitten by her pretty eyes, 
 or was nettled by her blissful insensibility to his 
 presence. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin, looking at the young man beside 
 14
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES 
 
 her, found him scowling in the direction of the piano. 
 But Mrs. Pinchin, following his look, saw nothing 
 except her companion engrossed in the music, and 
 Mr. Alfuente edging a little nearer. A steady hum 
 of small talk had risen in the drawing-room; the 
 guests had broken their solemn silences at last; and 
 reassured and complacent, Mrs. Pinchin smiled about 
 her almost genially, her momentary air of uneasi 
 ness gone, and once more the contented, sufficient 
 hostess. 
 
 " Well, young man," she exclaimed, with an almost 
 kittenish playfulness ; " it 's taken you a long time 
 to find the way to my Sunday nights. Never mind 
 I '11 forgive you. How 're you getting on ? " 
 
 Mr. Geikie detached his eyes from the little com 
 edy in the corner, and looked at his hostess inquir 
 ingly. " I beg your pardon ! You mean the 
 houses? " 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin nodded, smiling at him majestically 
 and with encouragement. " That 's what ! though 
 I suppose I should n't talk business when you J re 
 here for a good time. Still," she observed oracu 
 larly, " nothing like talking shop to a man to keep 
 him interested. Now, is there ? " 
 
 Mr. Geikie, who, it appeared, was an architect, 
 assented good naturedly. " But look out, Mrs. Pin- 
 chin," he warned, with a mock seriousness ; " if you 
 get me started you know what I '11 say about your 
 houses. You know what I think about the fittings 
 you have selected." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin's air of playfulness became even more 
 15
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 playful. "Oh, you architects!" she laughed jo 
 cosely, and tapped him on the sleeve ; " you 'd like 
 to ruin us all with your notions ! " Here she rolled 
 up her eyes, and clucked tragically. " Do you want 
 to make palaces out of laborers' huts? Why 
 if I- -" 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin broke off abruptly, and darted 
 another quick look around her. For Mr. Geikie, at 
 last catching Miss Robinson's eye, had risen to smile 
 and bow to her eagerly. 
 
 " Hey! you know someone here? " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Pinchin, alertly, not seeing her companion's shy 
 little nod of recognition. "Hey! who is it?" 
 
 Once more there was the small air of uneasiness 
 in both her tone and manner, a something that be 
 tokened almost anxiety. It was a fact, however, 
 that Mrs. Pinchin often showed her stiffness and 
 lack of poise in ways like this. 
 
 Mr. Geikie resumed his seat. " I was bowing to 
 Miss Robinson," he answered quietly. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin sank back almost crossly. " Huh ! 
 Oh, you mean her? " she mumbled brusquely, her 
 thick lids fluttering as she blinked again toward the 
 piano. " Where did you ever meet my companion, 
 heh? " 
 
 The question was asked idly, carelessly enough, 
 though when Mrs. Pinchin had asked it, she darted 
 a quick little glance at him. 
 
 Mr. Geikie explained that he had seen Miss Rob 
 inson on occasions when he had called on business 
 and had found Mrs. Pinchin out. How many oc- 
 
 16
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES 
 
 casions, however, he did n't say. " Why, day before 
 yesterday, I talked with her nearly an hour. She 's 
 very pretty, is n't she ? " 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin nodded, but without enthusiasm. 
 Possibly Mr. Geikie had lowered himself in her esti 
 mation by wasting time and attention over one of 
 her servitors. Had she known how much he had en 
 joyed himself, too, she would have felt even less en 
 thusiastic. Across the room Mr. Alfuente still 
 twirled his moustache, and still threw languishing 
 glances at the oblivious victim; and as Mrs. Pinchin 
 made no further effort to continue the conversation, 
 the young architect did his best unaided. 
 
 " You '11 laugh when you hear what we talked 
 about," he volunteered. 
 
 " Indeed ! " murmured Mrs. Pinchin, absently. 
 
 " Yes, I 'm sure you will," he laughed ; " guess 
 what it was now." 
 
 " Oh, I 'm sure I could n't," she muttered unin- 
 terestedly. 
 
 Mr. Geikie went on blithely even in the face of 
 this discouragement. " Have n't you said the only 
 way to keep a man interested was to talk shop? 
 Can't you guess now ? " 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin, without taking the trouble to an 
 swer, almost irritably shook her head. But if the 
 turn the talk had taken bored her to dumbness, she 
 was presently to awake from her ennui, the conver 
 sation turning at that point into a subject which 
 seemed of singular concern to her. 
 
 Mr. Geikie gazed at her whimsically. " We talked 
 2 17
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 houses what do you think of that ? Or rather, we 
 talked about a particular house all about a single 
 little red brick dwelling ! " 
 
 " All about a house ? " echoed Mrs. Pinchin. 
 " About houses ! What did that girl want to know 
 about it? " 
 
 Mr. Geikie's eyes twinkled merrily. " There, I 
 don't wonder you look astonished ! Hardly the usual 
 conversation one makes for a young woman, is it? 
 But I was n't altogether to blame. Miss Robinson 
 quizzed me about it first, and it seems really wonder 
 ful what a lot of study she must have given to her 
 pet hobby. We got down finally to locating parts 
 of the city by the types of buildings, and that 's 
 pretty hard in New York, too, the way we keep 
 on building at haphazard, without any regard for 
 convention or neighboring types. Don't you agree 
 with me? " 
 
 " I should n't wonder," mumbled Mrs. Pinchin, 
 staring at him, the corners of her mouth turned 
 down. 
 
 " No to tell the truth, Miss Robinson will have 
 a hard time locating any house in New York merely 
 by description. All our houses are alike only in 
 their absolute lack of distinction." 
 
 Again Mrs. Pinchin moved uneasily. " To locate 
 a house? " she repeated, a tone almost of wonder in 
 her voice. " What house did she want to locate ? 
 What kind of a house was it? " she demanded, and 
 after that the heavy-lidded eyes blinked as they left 
 his face and traveled toward the young woman at 
 
 18
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES 
 
 the piano. Mrs. Pinchin seemed highly interested 
 in the kind of house her companion sought to 
 locate. 
 
 But from Mr. Geikie's answer, it seemed unlikely 
 that Miss Robinson hunted any particular house; 
 rather, it was a type of house. " Just an ordinary 
 brick dwelling, Mrs. Pinchin one of your usual 
 old-fashioned affairs, you know," he said lightly, 
 quite unconscious of the growing alertness, her ris 
 ing interest and concern ; and Mr. Geikie was al 
 ready about to change the topic when the comedy at 
 the piano reached its climax. 
 
 " Excuse me a moment," said the young man, rising 
 hastily. 
 
 Miss Robinson had left her seat, and, still ignoring 
 Mr. Alfuente, was struggling with a large lamp that 
 stood on the music cabinet at her side. The musician, 
 twirling his moustache, made no effort to aid her, 
 and she was trying to lift the lamp to the piano-top 
 when Mr. Geikie reached her. " Let me help you, 
 won't you?" he asked, and then, with no apology 
 to Mr. Alfuente, he took the lamp and set it down 
 on the piano in a place where it effectually oblit 
 erated the velvet-eyed gentleman, his moustaches and 
 his dreamy, languishing smiles. 
 
 Miss Robinson looked at him gratefully. " Thank 
 you so much," she said quietly; " that 's just where 
 I wished it." There was no other meaning than 
 thanks for the civility in her tone, nor did she even 
 cast a glance at the now retreating Mr. Alfuente, 
 who, after a sour, conscious glare, had departed to 
 
 19
 
 the other side of the room. But none who had watched 
 the little comedy could have had any reason to 
 doubt the real cause of her gratefulness, no one, 
 unless it were the lean musician, so completely ex 
 tinguished in his attentions. 
 
 The young man still lingered by the piano. 
 " Found your house yet, Miss Robinson ? " he in 
 quired gaily. 
 
 During his momentary absence from the seat be 
 side Mrs. Pinchin, Miss Freedlark had swooped down 
 on it, and, as a glance assured him she needed no aid 
 in talking to the hostess, he remained where he was. 
 
 " What ! " he exclaimed, when she shook her head ; 
 "haven't you found it? Really? And after all 
 my aid and encouragement? " 
 
 Miss Robinson shook her head again, and smiled 
 back at him. " I have about given up all hope," she 
 answered lightly, slowly sorting her music. 
 
 " Oh, never say die ! " chided the young man, 
 promptly ; " while there 's life, there 's hope." 
 
 " That 's true," answered the girl, sagely ; " and 
 the longer one lives, the wider becomes the prospect 
 of hope." 
 
 " Cynic ! " he mocked airily, and then soberly com 
 posed his face. " Hope 's a mighty good thing any 
 way. It keeps one going when there 's nothing else 
 to go on. Oh, yes it does! I often wonder how it 
 would be to feel without hope." 
 
 " I wonder ! " exclaimed Miss Robinson, her lips 
 parting a little. But in the response the young man 
 detected nothing but an idle assent. 
 
 20
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES 
 
 " No, Miss Robinson," he rattled on lightly ; 
 " you must n't give up hope so easily. Let 's see : 
 what kind of a house was it ? " 
 
 The girl fluttered the sheets of music in her hand, 
 the shadowy light in her eyes grown deeper now, and 
 more thoughtful. " A castle in Spain, I think, 
 a mansion in the skies, perhaps," she answered, but 
 there was a great deal of effort in the whimsical 
 answer. 
 
 " A castle in Spain ? " he repeated, and then puck 
 ered his brows in mock seriousness. " Now see here, 
 Miss Robinson. I 've been thinking about that house 
 of yours. It was a double brick house was n't 
 that it ? and it had white columns at the door, a 
 fan light, a spindle railing out in front, and green 
 blinds ? Yes you see my wonderful memory ! " 
 The girl smiled and nodded. " Very well, then," he 
 cut in buoyantly, a twinkle in his eyes ; " I know 
 where you can march right up to a house like that. 
 I do now ! " he insisted, when she shook her head in 
 doubt. 
 
 " Where? " she asked, oblivious of Mrs. Pinchin 
 who was biting her lip, and vainly and irritably try 
 ing to catch her attention. 
 
 " Old Greenwich Village ! " he answered promptly, 
 and with conviction ; " if there 's one house down 
 there like it, there are hundreds." But there the girl 
 broke into a ripple of amusement. 
 
 " Hundreds ! " she gibed ; " and I 'm looking for 
 only one." 
 
 He had to laugh, too, when he thought of it. 
 21
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Still," he ventured hopefully, " your house might 
 be among them ; and after the way you 've hunted 
 for two years, as you tell me, it might be worth 
 trying. Are you going on a still hunt again to 
 morrow? and in the morning, as usual?" She 
 nodded, and he went on with a newer, livelier twinkle 
 in his eye. " Very well ! Then it might pay if you 
 took a look in at Hedge Street. There 's a house 
 like yours in that street, too." 
 
 The girl laughed again and thanked him. 
 
 "But mind!" he added, "I don't think you '11 
 really ever find it unless you keep your promise to 
 let me go with you. You know what you promised 
 the other day? " 
 
 " Yes, I remember," she answered, with a laugh, 
 coloring faintly again. 
 
 " Mind now ! You '11 have hard work without me. 
 It 's a pretty large order to find any house by de 
 scription, just as I've been telling Mrs. Pinchin. 
 You see " 
 
 A low, startled exclamation interrupted him. 
 " Mrs. Pmchm! " she repeated sharply. " I hope 
 you have n't told her what we talked about? " 
 
 There was in her tone and expression something 
 so regretful and startled that the young man stared 
 at her in bewilderment. 
 
 " Why, I did yes. I hope I have n't done any 
 thing clumsy, have I ? Why " 
 
 The girl turned her head nervously, and shot a 
 swift glance toward her patron. It was a furtive 
 look, a glance as uneasy as that which Mrs. Pinchin 
 
 22
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES 
 
 had thrown toward the piano when Mr. Geikie re 
 peated her companion's talk about a house and 
 houses. There was wakefulness and concern in the 
 girl's face. Beside the hostess Miss Freedlark was 
 still chattering away, her mouth spread in the widest 
 of smiles, and emphasizing her talk with many elo 
 quent shrugs of her lean, scraggy shoulders, many 
 curvings and perkings of her weedy, giraffe-like neck. 
 But Mrs. Pinchin, so far from appearing to listen 
 to her, now had her eyes fixed on the hangings of 
 the door through which Mr. Stanton had so lately 
 made his exit. Someone was peering through the 
 parted curtains, and, whoever the person was, Mrs. 
 Pinchin was watching him with every manifestation 
 of alarm. 
 
 " Listen ! " warned the girl, swiftly ; " please for 
 get that I spoke to you about the house. I cannot 
 tell you what it means to me to say no more about 
 it." She looked again at Mrs. Pinchin, her troubled 
 eyes still brimming with concern. " You may have 
 done no harm, yet " 
 
 She broke off abruptly, another startled exclama 
 tion falling from her lips, and then mute and as 
 tounded, she stared toward the back of the room. 
 
 There between the hangings appeared for a 
 moment the face of Mr. Stanton. He was gazing 
 toward the two at the piano, and Mrs. Pinchin, from 
 her chair, was violently signaling to him, her heavy 
 features convulsed into a look of warning and dismay, 
 utterly unaware of the figure she was cutting, or of 
 the fact that Miss Freedlark sat open-mouthed and 
 
 23
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 dumb, staring at the pantomime. But almost in 
 stantly, as the young man at the piano started to 
 look around, Mr. Stanton's face withdrew; and the 
 hostess, falling back into her seat, glared abruptly 
 toward her companion. 
 
 " Play ! " she rumbled in a thickened voice, her 
 nostrils distended like those of a warhorse answer 
 ing the alarm. " PLAY ! " cried Mrs. Pinchin in a 
 thundering voice; and the young girl, her lip trem 
 bling and the color flooding into her face, bent over 
 the piano, her fingers stumbling among the keys.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Dealing with the unenviable position of a paid companion. 
 Conic Who ? and Corrie What ? The case of the 
 Missing Dwelling. Mrs. Pinchin's -flight by night from 
 her former home. All about tJie boy with the bread and 
 jam, and Brown, Smith, and Robinson. "R. tottabee, 
 his Book. ' ' The stricken child, and Miss Maria j s cu 
 rious emotion. Mrs. Pinchin's rage and alarm. Fin 
 ishing with a slight mention of some of the disadvan 
 tages of being adopted. 
 
 T ATE that night and long after the last guest 
 * had departed from Mrs. Pinchin's, Corrie Rob 
 inson sat up in bed with her hands pressed to her 
 throbbing temples, and stared wakefully through the 
 dark. 
 
 " Corrie ! Corrie ! Corrie ! " shrilled a fantastic, 
 jeering voice drumming in her brain. "Corrie! 
 Corrie !" and afterwards, in an accusing trumpet 
 blast " Corrie " contemptuously " Corrie 
 Who? " 
 
 Corrie did n't know. All her mind could bear 
 upon was that she was nineteen now, and Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's paid companion. It seemed enough. But 
 Corrie why could n't Corrie know ? It was be 
 cause she could n't that Corrie sat up in bed in the 
 dark and knuckled her head so distractedly. Oh, if 
 she could only think! Between her throbbing tem 
 ples the voice, the mocker, thumped away in aching 
 
 25
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 sledge strokes, the way it always made her head ache 
 when it came to taunt her, pleading, teasing, every 
 thing by turns. Corrie! Oh, Corrie! But, Corrie 
 Who? 
 
 It was so she had wrestled with it for years, little 
 variation in her trouble's questioning theme. At 
 twelve, on top of wondering who, Corrie had begun 
 to wonder what as well. Age brews wisdom, and 
 at twelve Corrie was already old. No, she had never 
 been young, she told herself never known a time 
 when the inner voice had not cried its mockery in 
 the dark. Times when it screamed pleadings, ur 
 ging " Oh, can't you ever remember? " - Corrie 
 used to reach out her arms, as if to grapple with the 
 wraithlike memories that teased her so, fragments 
 as shadowy as the ghosts of half-forgotten dreams. 
 But she could not draw them to her. " Come back ! 
 Oh, won't you please, please come back ! " Perhaps 
 after all they were really only dreams nothing more 
 than that foggy, nebulous, chimeric. There were 
 fragments that lived hazily memories of a time and 
 of a place and of people all so different from these she 
 knew now graphically different because there were 
 no ugly looks, and harsh words, and equally bitter 
 indifference in their scheme of dealing with a little 
 child. Still, that, too, may have been but a dream. 
 
 As obscure, vague, indefinite, was her first memory 
 of Mrs. Pinchin that, as well, little better than 
 an almost forgotten fancy ; yet more vivid when she 
 recalled that the moment marked a finite end to her 
 childhood. She thought, or so it seemed, though, of
 
 BROWN, SMITH AND ROBINSON 
 
 course, she must always have lived with Mrs. Pinchin 
 she thought she played beneath a flowery bush in 
 an old, tangled garden, and that the leathery face 
 stared suddenly down at her a dream, no doubt 
 an uneasy, troubling dream this time. "You, there!" 
 grunted Mrs. Pinchin, and crooked her finger. Then 
 her thick, flabby lips parted with a gleam of teeth. 
 " You, there! " she croaked. Afterward came a con 
 fused, bewildering memory of getting up and going 
 with Mrs. Pinchin to the shifting of that first 
 time and place to another scene to this life she 
 had learned to know, certain only of its narrow re 
 ality. There was no dream about that about 
 this. But beyond it, forgetfulness, like a fog, rolled 
 in and hid everything from view. When she awoke 
 she came to herself only as Corrie, and nothing but 
 that Corrie, the same scrubby, stilty-legged young 
 one who knew only Mrs. Pinchin's a wise, soli 
 tary child allowed to play with only the servants, and 
 only when they 'd let her. No one told her anything 
 of childhood. She knew she 'd never been a child 
 never, never known a childhood. No one had ever 
 taught her anything of that told her anything 
 childlike not even that there were toys ; or much 
 less, that they were bought for children. And Mrs. 
 Pinchin? you '11 inquire. Oh, Mrs. Pinchin was busy ! 
 Mrs. Pinchin must not be bothered! Little girls 
 should be seen and not heard! Little girls must 
 not speak until spoken to and all that sort of 
 thing. 
 
 It was Miss Maria who taught Corrie to read, 
 27
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 since she had never been sent to school. There were 
 times when Miss Maria used to peer intently at Cor- 
 rie and then furtively at Mrs. Pinchin; and some 
 times Miss Maria seemed trying to be kind. It was 
 she, for instance, who at last unconsciously opened 
 to Corrie's view one peopled world of childhood, the 
 world of dreams ; fairies and fairy godmothers, 
 princesses and wonderful princes, of pumpkins that 
 turned into splendid coaches, and white mice trans 
 formed to champing steeds, all of that and all 
 the rest of the images and fancies that flock the magic 
 land of Make Believe. Once Corrie knew how to 
 read, all this greater world opened to her; and she 
 read, as the true reader reads, rapaciously and with 
 out rhyme or reason, gorging herself on whatever 
 books she could find, and asking none to guide her. 
 It was through this by instinct, intuition, what 
 ever you wish to call it that Corrie was led to the 
 box of books hidden in Mrs. Pinchin's garret. That 
 was when she was seven or eight. Almost all the 
 books were in French, and Corrie knew no French. 
 But among them was one book she could understand 
 a book filled with magic tales of palaces and caves 
 and fairy islands where lived genii and ogres and 
 djins, and more princes and princesses and por 
 ing through their adventures, the child shivered with 
 creepy, crawly feelings up and down her spine, or 
 shook with delicious pleasure. They taught her, 
 too, to build her own magic palaces of delight, a 
 most wonderful work ! And on the fly leaf was writ 
 ten in a boy's scrawling hand:
 
 BROWN, SMITH, AND ROBINSON 
 
 " When this you see, 
 Remember me. 
 
 R. tollabee his Book." 
 
 She hid it away, its existence craftily concealed 
 from Mrs. Pinchin. Greedy Mrs. Pinchin! maybe 
 she 'd take it for herself. Corrie dared not show it 
 even to Miss Maria, for Corrie had grown wise. 
 
 Also in the box was another book; a fat, leather- 
 bound volume fitted with a brass clasp and filled with 
 pictures of people of a bygone day. One face the 
 first in the album she decided must be a portrait 
 of Mrs. Pinchin's youth, though the face was less 
 gross and flabby than the face she knew now. Then 
 came the picture of a tall, slender man in black; 
 a solemn, gentle-faced man, who singularly enough 
 held a very small child in his arms. With a 
 child's profound interest in children, her at 
 tention was fixed permanently on this ; and beside it, 
 there grew into her living mind the face of another 
 figure in the album, one that appeared again and 
 again, the face of a young, dark-eyed woman, the 
 softness of whose clear eyes and quiet smile still shone 
 unobscured from the faded, yellowing prints. Who 
 was she? A fairy godmother? Corrie thought so; 
 and this album and the other book were her dearest 
 possessions, almost her only possessions, hidden away 
 there in Mrs. Pinchin's dusty garret, like treasure 
 trove in a cave. 
 
 But to go back. If Corrie were really only Corrie, 
 and Mrs. Pinchin merely Mrs. Pinchin, there was a 
 
 29
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 great deal still to be explained. Why, for instance, 
 was Corrie never sent to school never, never al 
 lowed to play with the other children? What was it 
 that was wrong about her? There was the boy who 
 had tried to talk to her through the fence, and now 
 why? But wait! 
 
 They lived then in the other house the house 
 with the white columns at the door, the green blinds, 
 the fan light, and so on not the one in which Mrs. 
 Pinchin was now settled so comfortably, so much af 
 ter her own taste. Curious Mrs. Pinchin ! It seemed 
 to Corrie that Mrs. Pinchin, too, must never have 
 known a childhood that she 'd always been big, 
 past middle-age, and dark, her face tanned like 
 leather. " Little girls must n't bother ! " No, indeed ! 
 For it appeared Mrs. Pinchin must be extremely care 
 ful about her comfort, as she certainly was. She 
 lived perpetually in fear of something happening, it 
 seemed nervously in dread of it. Mrs. Pinchin 
 called it a stroke, whatever that might be ; and some 
 how the presence and bother of little girls contributed 
 largely to her fears. Perhaps that was the reason 
 why Mrs. Pinchin must always have everything first ; 
 and nearly always, as it turned out, all there was of 
 it, particularly if it were very good and toothsome. 
 Greedy Mrs. Pinchin! When she was comfortable 
 and cosy and had everything she wished, Mrs. Pin- 
 chin grunted thickly, smacking her lips and chuck 
 ling softly and grinning to herself. And when she 
 had n't what she wished, one always knew it. Rows 
 and rows of silk and satin gowns hung in her closets, 
 
 80
 
 BROWN, SMITH, AND ROBINSON 
 
 and when she had nothing else to do, she 'd go and 
 look them over and feel their fineness between her 
 fingers and stand back and admire them ; and on her 
 tables were always candies and cake and other com 
 forts, and there were flowers and perfumes, too, all 
 of which Mrs. Pinchin liked so much. Only little 
 girls must n't touch, and when little girls could n't 
 help but touch, they almost always got their knuckles 
 rapped. Afterwards Mrs. Pinchin would take a sniff, 
 or a nibble, or a bite, and purr contentedly through 
 her nose. 
 
 Corrie, even as a child, realized the grim nature 
 of that massive, self-indulgent woman, and she feared 
 her. There was the cane the stick that thwacked 
 the floor like a blind man's. Corrie had reason to 
 remember it. There was its rubber ferrule, and the 
 rubber ferrule had more purposes than one. There 
 was the cane's ivory handle shaped like a Greek tau, 
 one arm of the crossbar turned over into a hook, 
 which also had its other purposes than a handle. If 
 Mrs. Pinchin had a desire to go softly, the ferrule 
 muffled the thump ! thump ! along the hallways ; and 
 there were times in the dark, for instance when 
 the ivory hook reached out unexpectedly, and seized 
 like a claw ! 
 
 That time Corrie had talked through the fence to 
 the boy the cane had come hopping soundlessly 
 down the walk and crooked itself on Corrie's arm. 
 Ooh! how she'd jumped, scared, and only five! But 
 why a snub-nosed boy with blue eyes and brown, wavy 
 hair, and armed only with a slice of bread and jam, 
 
 31
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 should so excite the emotion of Mrs. Pinchin, Corrie 
 even now could n't imagine. Not even the bread and 
 jam added anything to solve the riddle. 
 
 " Mus' n't talk to you," Corrie had mumbled in 
 decisively to the boy; for orders were orders, par 
 ticularly when Mrs. Pinchin had given them. But 
 the bread and jam had been held near enough to bite, 
 so Corrie had bitten recklessly. Ever afterwards 
 jam possessed for her a precious significance that 
 never seemed to fade, particularly damson jam. 
 " Must n't ! " warned Corrie, her mouth full ; " 't ain't 
 allowed to speak to boys." 
 
 " Go on ! " gibed the boy, grinning widely. " No 
 body 's looking." 
 
 " They are too ! Things is always watching," cor 
 rected Corrie, who knew. For had not Mrs. Pinchin 
 always warned 'her that something would catch her 
 if she did n't watch out. Things was everywhere, as 
 Mrs. Pinchin had definitely explained, and no wicked 
 child could escape them. Nor from Mrs. Pinchin, as 
 it appeared. 
 
 "We've just moved in; and say, I know about 
 you ! " declared the boy, importantly ; " you live 
 in Pinchin's, and father, he says your father " 
 
 Corrie had n't learned what the boy's father had 
 said; for just then the ivory handle crooked about 
 her arm, and she was dragged backward with a jerk. 
 
 " Did n't I tell you? " menaced Mrs. Pinchin under 
 her breath. At one glimpse of the warfare in her 
 face the boy had taken to his heels terrified. 
 " Did n't I tell you? " She hopped back up the walk, 
 
 32
 
 BROWN, SMITH, AND ROBINSON 
 
 one hand gripping Corrie under the arm; and in 
 the dark, top-floor room where Corrie was always 
 locked, Mrs. Pinchin flopped down on a chair, one 
 fluttering hand over her heart and her flabby lips 
 twitching convulsively. There she sat, perhaps on 
 the verge of one of her promised strokes, gagging 
 and panting and working her face and wheezing 
 'twixt her teeth in distress. But just as Corrie was 
 prepared to see what a stroke was really like, Mrs. 
 Pinchin drew a heavy breath and sat up. 
 
 " That was close very, very close ! " she whis 
 pered to herself. " I must take care yes, I shall 
 have another unless I 'm very, very careful ! You 
 come here! " 
 
 Corrie went because the ivory handle had reached 
 out for her; and Mrs. Pinchin's face drew close. 
 
 " Look me in the eyes now ! No stories, mind you ! 
 Here ! Look at me ! What was that boy saying to 
 you?" 
 
 Coirie's eyes tried hard to dodge the eyes so close 
 to hers. " He said his mother gave him the bread 
 and jam. He wanted to know if mine does." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin gave her a little shake. " Come 
 none of that! What else did he tell you? Look me 
 in the eyes, I say ! " 
 
 Corrie breathed between her clenched teeth. " He 
 did n't say anything else ; you came and took me 
 away." She put both her hands against Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's breast and pushed. " Let me go ! I hate you, 
 Mrs. Pinchin ! " she whispered. " You 're not my 
 mother at all ! " 
 
 3 33
 
 COKRIE WHO? 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin smiled, though she did n't let go ; 
 and her double rows of shiny teeth grinned in Corrie's 
 face. Presently she moved slightly, and gripped 
 Corrie between her knees. " Listen look me in the 
 eyes ! Are you looking me in the eyes ? " 
 
 She detached one hooked hand from Corrie's arm, 
 and with a big, bony knuckle knocked Corrie softly on 
 the forehead. Tap ! tap ! like that. " I want 
 you to remember this." Rap! " I '11 not stand 
 any nonsense from you. No snooping now!" Rap! 
 She gripped Corrie tighter. " Now about your 
 mother" Rap! tap! "and your father!" A 
 double rap! tap! like a bailiff banging on a door. 
 " The less you talk about them, the better for you. 
 Got that in your head ?" Rap! tap! tap! "Partic 
 ularly your father ! " Another bailiff's knock. 
 " You understand? " 
 
 Corrie answered " yes 'm," just as she had always 
 been taught to say to Mrs. Pinchin; though she 
 did n't understand. 
 
 " I took you," rapped Mrs. Pinchin, knuckle-wise, 
 " and gave you a good home. You 're nobody. 
 You 're called Pinchin because I let you. Remember 
 that now, if anyone asks you." Rap! tap! " I gave 
 you a home and a name only because I 'm good and 
 kind. Don't forget ! " 
 
 " No, ma'am," sincerely. 
 
 " One moment ! You will be allowed to live here 
 as long as you are good. But mind you no snoop- 
 Ing! You 're expected to be grateful, too. Now 
 stay in here until I let you out." 
 
 34
 
 BROWN, SMITH, AND ROBINSON 
 
 No snooping, mind you! Many things testified 
 to Mrs. Pinchin's aversion to such an ungrateful, ill- 
 mannered, crafty, deceitful return for all her kind 
 ness. No one must snoop while Mrs. Pinchin was 
 around and very few dared, either. For Mrs. 
 Pinchin was constantly stealing up one dark hall and 
 prowling down another and climbing the stairs on tip 
 toe, the thump! thump! of her cane muffled, and 
 carrying her along as silently and craftily as a black, 
 bulky shadow following at one's heels. No one could 
 snoop while Mrs. Pinchin was about and hope to 
 escape the consequences, because Mrs. Pinchin al 
 ways caught them at it. And even if they really 
 were n't snooping when she caught them, it amounted 
 to the same thing, anyway, since she always accused 
 them furiously. A long line of departing upstairs 
 girls, waitresses, parlor maids, and even cooks, and 
 occasionally, later on, a coachman or so, testified to 
 the fact of her aversion for it; and at the first sign 
 she 'd fall into a towering rage and promptly bundle 
 the offenders off about their business. Corrie was 
 often accused, just as she was when she talked to the 
 boy through the fence ; though somehow she was n't 
 turned out of doors for it. But when Mrs. Pinchin 
 detected anyone in the act of snooping, it seemed to 
 upset her beyond all expression ; and after her rage 
 had burned out she 'd sit and shiver and roll her 
 eyes about and peek into the dark corners behind the 
 doors ; and afterwards Mrs. Pinchin had to be stayed 
 with a cup of strong tea or a sip of sherry or port. 
 Then she'd lean back and sup the tea or sip the 
 
 85
 
 CORRIE WHO? . 
 
 sherry, making a small, guzzling sound in her throat, 
 and smacking her lips, and tasting every drop en 
 joy ably. But it nearly always required a day or so 
 after anyone had snooped to bring Mrs. Pinchin 
 back to her usual complacency and self-satisfaction. 
 
 " I '11 teach you to snoop ! Now stay in here till 
 I let you out!" 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin was turning the key in the door when 
 Corrie heard Miss Maria crying in agitation on the 
 stair. " Oh ! Oh ! " cried Miss Maria, breathlessly. 
 " The house back there The people that 've moved 
 in " 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin's thick voice cut in sharply. " Hold 
 your tongue ! If I had n't found that out myself 
 already, where would we be now ? " 
 
 There was a low murmur of talk on the landing 
 after that, and a further sound, as if Miss Maria's 
 emotions had overflowed in a little trickling whimper 
 of distress. Then Mrs. Pinchin's voice raised itself 
 again. 
 
 " Have n't I told you to stop gadding down there 
 all the time ? Oh, I believe you '11 be the death of 
 me yet ! " 
 
 Corrie, crouched against the panel, had wondered 
 what relation gadding bore to snooping. Also, where 
 was it that Miss Maria gadded to? 
 
 The child leaned back from the door after the 
 voices droned away on the stairs, and decided gravely 
 that, as soon as she got out, she 'd ask the boy what it 
 was his father knew about hers. Because she had n't 
 known before she 'd ever had a father. Of course, 
 
 36
 
 BROWN, SMITH, AND ROBINSON 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin had warned her the less she said about 
 fathers and mothers the better it would be for her. 
 But Corrie did n't care. And the boy well, Cor- 
 rie never got the chance to ask him. For during two 
 days she was locked in her room, and while she sat 
 there she heard feet stamping on the floors below 
 and the sound of things thumping on the stairways ; 
 and on the night of the second day, when she was 
 brought down, not a stick of furniture was left in 
 the house, and the three servants had been sent away. 
 
 They went out into the night, then, Mrs. Pinchin 
 and Miss Maria and Corrie, and getting into a car 
 riage, drove endlessly. Afterwards the carriage was 
 dismissed, Mrs. Pinchin shaking Corrie awake, and 
 dragging her aboard a street car; and then they 
 rode still further, Corrie going to sleep again and 
 falling up against Miss Maria every time the car 
 bounced. Later they got out and drove in another 
 carriage, a chance night-hawk picked up at the curb ; 
 and when the child awoke again, it was morning, and 
 she found herself in the house where Mrs. Pinchin 
 had now been settled so long. There Corrie's life 
 began anew. 
 
 Nothing happened for a long time. At seven she 
 found the books, and it was a great episode. The 
 album she stowed secretly behind the lowest drawer 
 of a big, old-fashioned walnut bureau; the book of 
 fairy tales she shoved under a pile of rugs in the 
 corner. Whenever Mrs. Pinchin was out and Miss 
 Maria was n't watching, she used to steal into the 
 garret and get the books; and many a night when 
 
 37
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 the child should have been asleep, she sat up study 
 ing the big print, or poring over the pictures. Then 
 one day Mrs. Pinchin and her maids descended sud 
 denly on the garret storeroom, and overhauled it 
 from end to end. That is, the maids did, Mrs. Pin- 
 chin contenting herself with one discreet peep, after 
 which she retired, elegantly dusting her finger tips. 
 
 Corrie never saw her book again. The album, 
 hidden behind the bureau drawer, was saved, but the 
 other was gone eternally. For days and days she 
 kept up the desperate hunt, and, emboldened at last 
 by woe, she knocked at Miss Maria's door. 
 
 Miss Maria was sitting by the window, a child's 
 garment in her hands, and her eyes, for once, quietly 
 at rest and softened. 
 
 "Well, Corrie?" 
 
 Corrie gazed at her fixedly. " I want my book," 
 she murmured pleadingly ; " won't you please get me 
 back my book? " 
 
 "What book, child?" 
 
 "My book that's gone. Did she take it?" 
 
 The she, of course, meant only Mrs. Pinchin. 
 Who else would have robbed her of her small 
 possession? 
 
 But Miss Maria knew nothing about it, and she 
 showed clearly that she did n't. " I have n't seen 
 your book, Corrie. Child, why do you look so 
 troubled?" 
 
 Corrie shook her head. She felt too dispirited to 
 talk about it when she found it would be of no use. 
 Of course Mrs. Pinchin had the book the greedy
 
 BROWN, SMITH, AND ROBINSON 
 
 old thing ! and would n't give it up. Corrie 
 dropped down on a stool near Miss Maria, and, with 
 her chin in her hands, sat watching her at her sewing. 
 
 " What 's that? " she asked dully, pointing at 
 Miss Maria's work. For awhile there was no an 
 swer; Miss Maria, after a quick look at the child, 
 bending lower over the sewing. Then, at length, 
 she answered. 
 
 " It 's for a little girl," she answered quietly ; " a 
 poor little girl I know." 
 
 A poor little girl! Corrie, still mourning her lost 
 treasure, wondered idly what kind of a poor little 
 girl a poor little girl must be. " She mus' n't have 
 any mother, now?" she suggested carelessly; "has 
 she? " 
 
 Miss Maria cast a startled look at Corrie, and 
 catching her eye, bent back to her sewing. 
 
 " Maybe I could play with her," added Corrie, 
 reflectively ; " could n't I ever play with a little girl, 
 sometime? " 
 
 Miss Maria laid her sewing in her lap, and sat 
 absorbed and silent, thinking deeply, and staring 
 straight before her. 
 
 " I guess I 'd like to play with some little girl," 
 said Corrie, as if musing aloud. " Don't little girls 
 like to play with me? " 
 
 A dry gulp almost like a sob sounded deep in 
 Miss Maria's throat, and she looked at Corrie with 
 her mouth quivering. " Yes, yes ! They would like 
 to play with you ! Oh, Corrie ! Corrie ! and 
 you 've never had anyone to play with either ! " Miss 
 
 39
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Maria drew a hand across her eyes, and turning 
 away, picked up her sewing. 
 
 But that was not the end to it. A day or two 
 later, just after the street door had closed on Mrs. 
 Pinchin's departure, Corrie heard a quick step on 
 the stair. It was Miss Maria, hurrying, and in her 
 face was both eagerness and cunning. " Come ! " 
 she whispered shrilly, and, clumsy-handed in her 
 haste, helped Corrie put on her hat and jacket. 
 " Come ! " she urged ; " we must hurry before she 
 gets back ! " 
 
 They rode in a street car for many blocks, and 
 when they alighted, Miss Maria, holding Corrie by 
 the hand, darted up one street and down the other, 
 turning corners hurriedly and darting over the 
 crossings and going altogether like one possessed. 
 They came at last to a quaint, ugly bystreet, and 
 there in the middle of the block stood a plain-faced, 
 square, well-kept little brick house, with a big, shining 
 knocker on the door and a little garden in front about 
 as large as a tea-tray, all filled with bachelor's but 
 tons, marigolds, geraniums, mignonette, heliotrope, 
 and old-fashioned roses. Two ragged small boys 
 were hanging over the fence with obvious designs 
 on the blossoms ; but when Miss Maria came hustling 
 up to the gate they looked at her face once and went 
 scuttling away up the street. 
 
 Miss Maria did n't rap with the knocker ; she let 
 herself in with a key. Perhaps this was where 
 Miss Maria always went gadding. At any event, 
 she turned around in the hallway, and, looking at 
 
 40
 
 BROWN, SMITH, AND ROBINSON 
 
 Corrie, made a strong effort to control herself. 
 " There 's a little girl here I 've brought you to 
 play with her. You can play if you want to you 
 can play you can play with the little girl. I '11 
 let you ! " 
 
 A door opened on the upper floor, flooding the 
 hallway with light. Standing there was a woman in 
 a white apron and cap some kind of an attendant, 
 Corrie realized, thinking of it afterwards. " Oh ! " 
 said the woman smiling, " is it you, Miss " 
 
 " Will you come down here, please," cried Miss 
 Maria, pushing Corrie into the room beside the hall. 
 
 " Certainly, Miss " 
 
 " I 'm in a great hurry," added Miss Maria, in 
 terrupting her. She closed the door on Corrie, but 
 the child could still hear the voices in the hall. How 
 ever, Miss Maria only wished a cup of tea and some 
 toast, and she would be greatly obliged to the young 
 woman if she would go downstairs and make it 
 herself. 
 
 " Oh, why yes, indeed, Miss " 
 
 " And I '11 be right down for it," said Miss Maria, 
 hastily. " Call out to me when it 's ready." 
 
 Then Miss Maria opened the door and took Corrie 
 up the stairs to a room at the front of the house. 
 
 But Corrie never played with the little girl sitting 
 there in that room. Nor could she ever forget why 
 she could not play with her. For the child, moving, 
 turned up to them two blank and expressionless 
 eyes eyes in which there was no light of reason, 
 light that is the. soul of the living, knowing mind. 
 
 41
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Corrie stared bewilderedly, aware only in her own 
 childishness that this was no child like other children 
 she had seen. As she stood there nonplussed, she felt 
 Miss Maria's fingers tighten on hers, and again Miss 
 Maria stared fixedly at Corrie. " You can play 
 with her I '11 let you. Are n't you going to play 
 with the little girl I've brought you to see? Now 
 you 've got someone to play with let me see you 
 play with her just once, Corrie. Let me see you 
 play like other children ! " 
 
 But though Corrie tried, striving to touch some 
 answering chord in that poor, dulled, feeble little 
 mind, they had to come away at last defeated. Cor 
 rie had found no playmate. " Oh Corrie ! Corrie ! " 
 murmured Miss Maria, and wept. 
 
 But who was this child? That was the question. 
 Dumbly Miss Maria led Corrie down the stairs 
 again, and without waiting for her tea and toast, 
 which she seemed to have forgotten utterly, she let 
 herself and Corrie out at the street door, and turned 
 on her way homeward. 
 
 " I don't think that little girl could know how to 
 play," suggested Corrie in a troubled voice. But 
 Miss Maria made no answer, and still in silence, Cor 
 rie trudging solemnly at her side, they returned to 
 Mrs. Pinchin's. 
 
 It was Mrs. Pinchin herself that met them at the 
 door, the very thing that Miss Maria had seemed so 
 anxious to avoid. She glared first in astonishment 
 at Miss Maria, who would have slipped by her in the 
 hall, and then she glared at Corrie. " Where have 
 
 42
 
 BROWN, SMITH, AND ROBINSON 
 
 you two been ? " she demanded meaningly. " Where 
 have you been taking that child? " 
 
 The old, shifty-eyed, frightened look of uneasi 
 ness sprang back into Miss Maria's face, though 
 she answered in sullen defiance. " I took her where 
 I 've been," she said ; and then with a little shake 
 she faced Mrs. Pinchin truculently. " Why should n't 
 I? " 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin shot her an angry scowl. " Do you 
 
 mean " she began furiously, and then checked 
 
 herself. " Go to your room ! " she ordered Corrie ; 
 and catching the gleam in Mrs. Pinchin's eyes, Corrie 
 wasted no time in going. 
 
 Miss Maria never took her back to the plain-faced 
 brick house, and to the child sitting in the upper 
 room staring at the light. Days afterward, when 
 Corrie spoke of it, Miss Maria silenced her with a 
 fierce hush! 
 
 But this strange episode meant nothing strange to 
 a child whose life had been made up of just such 
 queer occurrences. It lived in her memory only be 
 cause it was linked with another more important 
 happening. 
 
 " Mrs. Pinchin," said Corrie, becoming bold, 
 " what did you do with my book ? I want it ! " 
 
 " You want you want what ? " This with a ris 
 ing inflection, a note of astonishment, perhaps de 
 rision, that Corrie should want anything, and, much 
 less, should audaciously demand it. " What book ? 
 and what do you mean by coming in here without 
 knocking? " 
 
 43
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " I want my book," repeated Corrie, obstinately, 
 " I want my Tollabee book! " 
 
 " What! " There was no longer any derision in 
 Mrs. Pinchin's voice. It still betrayed astonish 
 ment, no doubt, yet with that was a more potent 
 emotion. The leathery hue crept out of Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's face, and a pasty, unwholesome pallor crept 
 into it. " What! " she whispered. 
 
 " My Tollabee book," insisted Corrie. " 'T ain't 
 yours, Mrs. Pinchin, it 's mine ! " 
 
 The paroxysm that swept over Mrs. Pinchin's 
 face again flew the signals of an impending stroke. 
 But again Mrs. Pinchin recovered herself. " You 
 say that again ! " she commanded in a thrilling whis 
 per, and with a spiderlike dart reached out and 
 clutched Corrie with her stick. Just then Miss Maria 
 appeared at the door, and, seeing what was going on, 
 tried to retreat unnoticed. But Mrs. Pinchin saw 
 her, and flew up in a passion. " You numskull ! " 
 she cried, beneath her breath. " You see what 
 you 've Oh, clear out of here ! I shall lose my 
 temper next." 
 
 There were times when Corrie wished she would, 
 and that she might never find it again. But to her 
 astonishment, when she looked back from the door, 
 Mrs. Pinchin's face was quite composed, though her 
 eyes still glittered a little. 
 
 She looked at Corrie, and slowly shook her head, 
 her manner sadly reproachful. " Little girls mus' n't 
 come in without knocking," she said, clucking her 
 tongue. " How many times must I tell you that ? " 
 
 44
 
 BROWN, SMITH, AND ROBINSON 
 
 Corrie hung her head without answering; end 
 lessly, she thought. 
 
 " I shall be real vexed if you do it again," remon 
 strated Mrs. Pinchin ; " that 's why I nearly got 
 an g r y J ust now Have n't you been told you mus' n't 
 bother? " 
 
 " Yes 'm," answered Corrie, truthfully. 
 
 " And " Mrs. Pinchin was about to say some 
 thing more in the same key when she looked down 
 and saw Corrie was standing on the hem of her lace- 
 trimmed wrapper. " Here ! take your dirty shoes off 
 my skirt ! " She gave Corrie another little shake and 
 shoved her away, delicately shaking out her ruffles to 
 assure herself no damage had been done. Afterwards 
 she leaned over to the table and helped herself to a 
 sweet a stuffed prune it chanced to be, taken from a 
 wooden box lined with tinfoil. These were an especial 
 dainty of Mrs. Pinchin's, and somehow in the child's 
 mind they were always associated with her in their 
 dark, oily fatness. " I 'm afraid," Mrs. Pinchin 
 mumbled, her mouth full, " that you 're inclined to 
 be a very naughty little girl ; " slowly eating 
 while she spoke, smacking her lips and breathing 
 thickly. " You 've been told you mus' n't bother 
 me; but you come bouncing in here and waking 
 me out of my nap, and all because of what? A 
 book ! " said Mrs. Pinchin, disgustedly, "nothing but 
 a book ! " 
 
 She helped herself to another fat, oily prune, and 
 regarded it enjoyingly before biting into it. 
 "Umh!" said Mrs. Pinchin, filling her mouth; 
 
 45
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 "what should I know about it? about your old 
 book now ? " she added carelessly, licking her finger 
 tips. Then her eyes whipped around suddenly. 
 " What was the name you said now ? Connolly ? 
 Jellaby? Who gave you that book? Answer me!" 
 
 " I found it in a box up in the garret. No one 
 wanted it but you, Mrs. Pinchin. Did you take 
 it? " 
 
 " In a box? In the garret? Oh! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Pinchin, swiftly. " Is that all? Then you get out 
 of here ! Do you hear me ? Hunh ! and don't you let 
 me catch you snooping around my garret again. 
 Clear out, I say ! " 
 
 So the book was gone ! gone for good ! never found 
 again ! Far back in the girl's mind lived the memory 
 of it, and all the other memories the vague and the 
 vivid and still they came to haunt her ; Corrie 
 growing through girlhood, twelve, fourteen, older 
 all the time, far older than her years intended her 
 to be. 
 
 At sixteen she went to Mrs. Pinchin, quietly, ap 
 pealing, yet not to be put off any longer. " Mrs. 
 Pinchin, I want to know who I am. Who am 
 I, Mrs. Pinchin? Won't you even tell me my 
 name? " 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin's heavy features screwed themselves 
 into a sudden, menacing frown. " What 's that ? 
 What do you mean ? " 
 
 Corrie fixed her eyes on the woman's and held them 
 there. " I want to know who I am, I say. What is 
 my name, Mrs. Pinchin ? " 
 
 46
 
 BROWN, SMITH, AND ROBINSON 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin's head rolled from side to side, and 
 her thick, drooping lips drooped a little further at 
 the corners. "Your name, hey? What have I got 
 to do with your name? Ain't Pinchin good 
 enough? Or would you rather have Brown, Smith, 
 
 or " She checked herself, and leered through 
 
 her thick, leathery eyelids. "Your name, hey? 
 Well, I '11 tell you what it is. I guess I can tell 
 you that much. It 's Robinson ! yes, that 's it. 
 They said it was that, anyway, and I don't know 
 what became of them. How 's Robinson suit you 
 now? any better than Pinchin? Robinson! 
 Robinson ! " 
 
 She chuckled noisily, and Corrie stood and watched 
 her. 
 
 " You adopted me from them ? Why did you 
 adopt me, Mrs. Pinchin ? " 
 
 Another startled look, another gleam from be 
 neath the dark, leathery lids. " Why ? well, why 
 should n't I? I did because I wanted to, that 's why ! 
 Miss Robinson ! Now go out of my room. I have n't 
 any time to waste on you. I 'm going to take my 
 nap!" 
 
 Miss Robinson ! Corrie did n't believe her. But 
 Robinson Brown or Smith or Robinson would do 
 in the meanwhile. Anything but Pinchin! So Rob 
 inson she called herself and was called, the same 
 kind of christening that would have been given to a 
 waif picked up in a hedgerow. 
 
 In the girl's mind there lived the feeling that when 
 she found the snub-nosed boy with the bread and 
 
 47
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 jam, the boy with the brown, wavy hair, she would 
 find a real name not Robinson, but the name that 
 was really hers. 
 
 What was it, anyway, he had tried to tell her 
 when Mrs. Pinchin dragged her away? 
 
 48
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Showing how even so well-regulated a character as Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's may seek variety by omitting to breakfast in bed. 
 Her esteem of food. Miss Maria's rebellion and the re 
 sult. Mrs. Pinchin's private den. Miss Maria turns 
 on the waterworks, her usual relaxation. Mrs. Pinchin's 
 unusual private equipage, her two antiquated roans and 
 mulatto coachman. The coachman's justified astonish 
 ment when his mistress abandons her brougham on the out 
 skirts of Greenwich Village. 
 
 the morning after Mrs. Pinchin's character- 
 istic Sunday entertainment the bell in her bed 
 room rang suddenly, imperatively, not to say vio 
 lently. As it was still early, unusually early for Mrs. 
 Pinchin to stir herself, the summons was wholly un 
 expected ; a sufficient reason why no one was near to 
 answer it on the jump, and, in turn with that, a most 
 sufficient reason why its clamor grew so vigorously. 
 
 Ordinarily Mrs. Pinchin breakfasted in bed, seldom 
 awakening before ten o'clock, and very infrequently 
 arising before noon. Promptly at ten a maid was ex 
 pected at the door with her tray, and on this tray 
 Mrs. Pinchin found fruit, a cereal, coffee and cream, 
 eggs, a chop or a bit of fish, and, to finish off with, a 
 generous supply of either waffles or pancakes. Slip 
 ping her arms into a dressing sack, Mrs. Pinchin sat 
 up in bed with the tray on her knees, and in acknowl 
 edged comfort and with many audible evidences of 
 4 49
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 enjoyment, proceeded to make away with all before 
 her. Afterwards she dawdled over the morning news 
 papers, her first interest in the social budget; and 
 then when she had learned what the gay world had 
 done and was doing, Mrs. Pinchin leisurely arose. 
 
 But to-day Mrs. Pinchin had other plans in view, 
 a break in her routine, as the growing clamor of her 
 bell assured. Corrie, coming down the stairs, was the 
 first to hear it, and, with a little wrinkling of her 
 brow, she stopped and rapped at the door. 
 
 Bolstered among the pillows, Mrs. Pinchin sat up 
 in bed, obviously alive to a very righteous indigna 
 tion. " Is anyone awake in this house ? " she de 
 manded tartly, " or are all you lazy creatures still 
 snoring? Pity I can't ever get anyone to answer me 
 when I ring ! " 
 
 It was a wide, high, half-canopy bed in which Mrs. 
 Pinchin lay, a massive piece of furniture veneered with 
 varnished bird's-eye maple of a canary-yellow hue. 
 Yet, in its massiveness, its occupant amply filled it. 
 In the dim light of the closed, shaded room, her face 
 disclosed itself more leathery and dark than ever, loose 
 and flabby, the pouches beneath her eyes swollen by 
 sleep to a still greater puffiness. Disturbed and 
 fretful, she drew her nightdress about her neck ; and 
 it was a delicate, dainty nightdress Mrs. Pinchin 
 wore, rich like all her other possessions and trimmed 
 elaborately with ruffs and tuckers and shirring, its 
 lace of a filmy texture. Against the deep, rusted, 
 ivory tone of Mrs. Pinchin's throat its delicate dain 
 tiness contrasted strongly, perhaps curiously. 
 
 50
 
 MRS. PINCHIN AND MISS MARIA 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin dragged the bedclothes about her and 
 shuddered regretfully. " Pity when I 've got to get 
 up, I say, that no one can be ready to wait on me." 
 She shuddered again, though one would not have 
 thought the room cold, for all the windows were 
 tightly closed and their shades and blinds closely 
 drawn. Perhaps, since the air was so warm, even 
 stuffy, perhaps Mrs. Pinchin shuddered from 
 another cause, say the sheer discomfort of rising at 
 such an outlandish hour. Reaching out her hands, 
 she clawed up the spread a little higher about her 
 chin, snuggling down into the great square of 
 thickly-quilted, salmon-pink silk, and rolling her 
 eyes around her moodily. " Have my breakfast on," 
 she mumbled ; " I 'm coming down." 
 
 Corrie had her hand on the doorknob when Mrs. 
 Pinchin called her back with a jerk of her head 
 toward the window furthest from the bed. " Pull 
 up that shade there ! No not like that ! " she cried 
 sulkily, " do you want to blind me ? " 
 
 The girl patiently lowered it to the desired height, 
 and Mrs. Pinchin having no further orders, she 
 withdrew. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin's bedroom, as revealed in the light, 
 was significant of Mrs. Pinchin. It was a large, 
 high-walled chamber, the best in the house naturally, 
 and filled almost to overflowing with those frequent 
 evidences of her love of material comfort and luxury. 
 The furniture, all of the same bird's-eye maple as 
 the bed, was equally massive and rich, and this rich 
 ness was reflected elsewhere in the thick, silk hangings 
 
 51
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 at the windows, the deep pile of Wilton on the floor, 
 the tall mirrors, the profusion of chased silver on the 
 bureau, the array of ornaments on mantel, shelf, and 
 bracket ; and, to top it all off, in the extraordinary, 
 indeed amazing, variety of expensive cosmetics, balms, 
 lotions, hair tonics, powders, and perfumes arranged 
 on a shelf above her dressing-table. In themselves, 
 they were a patent evidence of the care Mrs. Pinchin 
 gave herself, yet no inventory of the room would be 
 quite complete if one omitted the other comforts scat 
 tered around; such things, for instance, as the rib 
 bon-bedecked basket of bonbons in easy reach of her 
 bed, the decanter of sherry on a nearby stand, and 
 the plate of vanilla wafers beside it. Little for either 
 the inner or outer comfort of Mrs. Pinchin seemed 
 omitted. 
 
 Downstairs in the dining room, Corrie found 
 breakfast already on the table. Miss Maria had not 
 yet appeared, but as Miss Maria was always prompt, 
 Corrie knew she would be down directly. Beside the 
 pantry door stood the waitress, Maggie, a new girl 
 with stubby teeth and wide, carminous gums, and not 
 altogether tidy in her dress. Her manner toward 
 Corrie and Miss Maria was on all occasions a cross 
 between a sullen sulkiness and pert indifference; for 
 with a servant's ready wit in such matters, she had 
 already divined the inferior positions of the two, the 
 paid companion and the poor relation. 
 
 But Corrie, long accustomed to servants' indiffer 
 ence, ignored the girl's sullen, almost truculent man 
 ner. " You '11 have to take off the breakfast, 
 
 52
 
 MRS. PINCHIN AND MISS MARIA 
 
 Maggie," she directed quietly ; " we 're not ready 
 yet." 
 
 Naturally enough, Mrs. Pinchin insisted on being 
 the first to sit down at her own board. Besides the 
 sense of her own dignity, the sight of the others half 
 through a meal, this and the broken food, always filled 
 her with irritation why, it would not be difficult to 
 say ; for the fact remains that if Mrs. Pinchin were 
 not seated first and helped first and were not the first 
 to taste whatever there was to eat, she at once be 
 came extremely upset and uncomfortable. Maggie, 
 however, had come to the house too recently to 
 know the meals were delayed only for Mrs. Pinchin ; 
 and jerking up her shoulder and sticking a hand on 
 her hip, she seemed disposed to argue the matter 
 spiritedly. 
 
 " Take it away, Maggie," repeated Corrie, giving 
 no heed to the signals of war. " Mrs. Pinchin is 
 coming down this morning, and she won't like it if 
 the breakfast gets cold." 
 
 Out in the hall Corrie headed off Miss Maria. 
 " We '11 have to wait, Miss Maria ; Mrs. Pinchin is 
 coming down." 
 
 " Is she ? " answered the other, inertly. She looked 
 unusually peaked and wan, more downcast and sub 
 dued than ever, her pale eyes reddened about the 
 rims and creased with deep wrinkles at their corners. 
 There were few moments in which Miss Maria did not 
 look dowdy and unkempt, and now she looked hope 
 lessly and desperately so. But unlike the dowdiness 
 that sometimes showed itself in Corrie, Miss Maria's 
 
 53
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 lacked any single, redeeming feature, the feature, 
 for instance, of Corrie's surprising eyes, or the lithe- 
 ness of her young, girlish form, even though the form 
 were often hung in a plain, shapeless dress. 
 
 Curiously enough this morning Corrie's gown 
 looked less shapeless, less plainly unattractive than 
 her attire of the night before. It was perhaps just 
 as simple, quite as unostentatious and unadorned ; 
 yet somehow, if one looked at Corrie once, one looked 
 again, and instantly there dawned the fact of her 
 shapeliness, the slender grace of her form, and the 
 round fulness of her young, girlish throat. Nor, as 
 one saw, was Corrie's hair any longer snaked back 
 from her brow and wrung into a hard knot on her 
 neck. Now it was piled into a coil, a soft mass of fine, 
 silky brown, flashing in the light with the half-hidden, 
 unexpected gleams of dulled metal, its sheen framing 
 suitably the depth and shadowiness of her dark eyes. 
 So perhaps, after all, there were moments when Cor 
 rie, at a pinch, could look attractive moments when 
 it seemed as if she almost cared to reveal herself a 
 beauty. 
 
 It was not quite an hour later, but very nearly 
 that, when Mrs. Pinchin came down. However, as 
 Mrs. Pinchin's health did not admit of haste and the 
 overexertion of hurry, Miss Maria and Corrie were 
 prepared for the delay. Just before she completed 
 her toilet, she rang again, and this time there was 
 no delay in the answer to the summons. " Have the 
 breakfast put on now," she ordered Corrie, as she 
 stood up before the glass, carefully putting the last 
 
 54
 
 MRS. PINCHIN AND MISS MARIA 
 
 touches to her attire ; " have it on when you hear me 
 coming down. I won't be kept waiting." 
 
 She came stamping into the dining room event 
 ually, and stood by her chair in silence until Corrie 
 had drawn it out for her. Then Mrs. Pinchin hung 
 her stick over the chair back and sat down ponder 
 ously, her eyes traveling about the breakfast table 
 and going from that to the food on the smaller serv 
 ing table near the pantry door. " Hand the fruit, 
 girl," she directed sulkily to Maggie the waitress; 
 and Maggie, still fretted and sullen at the long 
 delay, scuffled across the carpet. But Mrs. Pinchin, 
 it appeared, was far too intent on the breakfast to 
 heed a servant's airs either to heed that, or any 
 thing else but her food. 
 
 She was dressed for the morning in a figured, 
 black brocade skirt and a rose-colored dressing sack 
 trimmed with lace and long streamers of narrow pink 
 satin ribbon. It hung loosely from her ample bust, 
 the wide sleeve revealing Mrs. Pinchin's massive arm 
 as she reached out to take an orange, a corded, 
 stalwart arm strongly in contrast to the loose flabbi- 
 ness of her face and form. Her choice of the orange 
 was slow and deliberate, as heavily precise as all her 
 actions. She took one, felt it with a squeeze of her 
 muscular fingers, regarded it closely, and put it back 
 in the dish. Then she began picking up first one 
 and then another, rejecting them in turn, until she 
 found one that met her satisfaction. " Unh ! " she 
 grunted; but just as Maggie was about to pass the 
 fruit to Miss Maria, Mrs. Pinchin glanced up side- 
 
 55
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 ways and snatched another; the movement, in this 
 instance, by no means so deliberate. Afterwards she 
 cut the two oranges into quarters, and with her eyes 
 on her plate and rolling from side to side, Mrs. Pin- 
 chin ate with the greatest gusto imaginable, her 
 big teeth dexterously separating the rind from the 
 pulp, and the smacking of her lips showing how she 
 relished the taste. 
 
 The meal was disposed of in silence, what little 
 talk there was limited to Corrie and Miss Maria, and 
 then carried on in an undertone. After the oranges 
 Mrs. Pinchin had her coffee, a hot roll, and a dish 
 of oatmeal, and after the oatmeal came a chop and 
 fried potatoes, followed by a plate of batter cakes. 
 During the meal Mrs. Pinchin spoke only once, all 
 her attention engrossed in the food; and when she 
 broke her silence, it was only to ask for another help 
 ing of cream. While the oatmeal dish was being re 
 moved she did look up, however, as if to make some 
 observation, perhaps about the weather, a topic 
 always ready on her tongue and now probably in her 
 mind, since she was staring out of the window. But 
 the chop arriving at the same moment, Mrs. Pinchin 
 fastened her eyes on it, and contented herself with 
 another rumbling " Unh ! " So it continued through 
 the meal. 
 
 The last batter cake had just been cut into morsels 
 on her plate when she spoke suddenly. " Have my 
 carriage here at ten," she ordered abruptly, her 
 mouth full, " and see to it that it 's here on time." 
 
 Corrie watched her attentively. She and Miss 
 56
 
 MRS. PINCHIN AND MISS MARIA 
 
 Maria had long finished their breakfast, but as Mrs. 
 Pinchin disliked to have anyone rise ahead of her, 
 they perforce kept their seats. With both knife and 
 fork going briskly, Mrs. Pinchin pursued the last 
 fragment of pancake and the last drops of maple 
 syrup to the edge of her plate, and there cornering 
 the toothsome morsel, implacably speared it. A few 
 touches with the knife served to scrape up the last re 
 maining trickle of sweetness, and laying down her 
 knife on the table, its edge resting on the plate, she 
 raised the fork toward her mouth. 
 
 " I '11 be out all day," she announced sharply, and 
 with that bolted the batter cake. To answer seemed 
 unnecessary; Corrie merely looked. 
 
 Crumpling her napkin into a ball, Mrs. Pinchin 
 tossed it on the table, and reached around to the 
 chair back for her cane. " Go get my engagement 
 book," she directed, and, glad to be relieved, the girl 
 sprang up from her seat. As she went up the stairs 
 to Mrs. Pinchin's room she heard the thick voice 
 murmur something in an undertone to Miss Maria, 
 and then Miss Maria answered inaudibly. Corrie 
 hastened on, knowing that Mrs. Pinchin disliked to be 
 kept waiting, and, picking up the engagement book 
 from the table, she retraced her steps to the 
 dining room. 
 
 When she entered, Miss Maria was sitting with 
 downcast eyes, her hands folded in her lap, and Mrs. 
 Pinchin, also in silence, was thoughtfully munching 
 the remains of the roll beside her coffee cup. She 
 took the book from Corrie and turned to the page 
 
 67
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 under the date. " Hmph ! " she grunted, working her 
 thick eyebrows into a frown ; " I forgot all about 
 the club reception. Tell that Freedlark woman when 
 she comes I had some pressing business and could n't 
 go." She twisted up her mouth into a grimace as 
 she spoke, and chuckled in her throat. " She 's ex 
 pecting a free ride in my carriage ; I guess she '11 be 
 disappointed." Miss Maria, still silent and down 
 cast, made no comment ; and Corrie, equally mute, 
 stood awaiting Mrs. Pinchin's wishes. " Hmph ! 
 nothing very much," commented Mrs. Pinchin, scan 
 ning the pencil notes on the page. " If anyone else 
 calls, say I 'm out for the day." 
 
 She closed the book, ate the last crumb of the roll, 
 and, taking a gulp of water, worked her lips up and 
 down over her teeth. " I 'm going to my room now," 
 she announced, picking up her stick, " and don't you 
 let anyone bother me till it 's time for the carriage. 
 Do you hear? " 
 
 Miss Maria hurried down the hall after her. " I 'm 
 going out with you," Corrie heard her whisper, 
 swiftly, determinedly ; " I can't sit here and wait. 
 I must go with you." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin, still scrambling along down the hall, 
 glowered at her roughly over her shoulder. " Go 
 with me? You '11 do nothing of the sort. Think 
 I 'm going to have you cutting up and " 
 
 A warning sshsh! uttered in an undertone cut her 
 short. Corrie was already half way up the stairs, 
 but the high walls had carried to her both the words 
 and the hushed warning. Mrs. Pinchin and Miss 
 
 58
 
 MRS. PINCHIN AND MISS MARIA 
 
 Maria hurried along together, Miss Maria cautious 
 but still determined, Mrs. Pinchin with her jaw set 
 and looking angry. Opening a door opposite the 
 entrance to the drawing-room, the two women entered, 
 and Corrie heard the latch click as it was locked 
 behind them. 
 
 The room was one that neither Corrie nor the maids 
 were ever permitted to enter, Mrs. Pinchin's orders on 
 this point being explicit and enforced. It was invari 
 ably kept locked, but once or twice Corrie had stolen 
 a peep into its interior when Mrs. Pinchin had opened 
 the door while Corrie was unexpectedly passing. 
 There was a big desk topped by a rack of pigeon-holes 
 standing in a corner, and beside it a cumbersome 
 safe guarded by a combination lock. In this room 
 Mrs. Pinchin securely closeted herself the first three 
 days of every month, when from behind the closed 
 door came the muttering of her voice and the clink 
 of coin as if incessantly counted and recounted. On 
 one occasion a glimpse into the room had shown the 
 desk piled high with bundles of bank notes and 
 rouleaux of gold and silver, all this wealth, as Cor 
 rie knew, the month's income from Mrs. Pinchin's 
 properties. In itself it indicated better than all else 
 how well-to-do a person Mrs. Pinchin really was ; the 
 fact that she gave the stewardship into no other 
 hands than her own attested to her interest and sat 
 isfaction in managing it. 
 
 This morning, however, Mrs. Pinchin had sought 
 solitude not to gloat over her possessions, but for 
 some other reason best known to herself. Never- 
 
 59
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 theless, Miss Maria pursued, though apparently to 
 little purpose; for no sooner had the door closed 
 behind the two, than it was almost immediately flung 
 open again, and the rasp of Mrs. Pinchin's voice was 
 heard raised in irritation. 
 
 " How many times have I got to say it now? 
 Come, stop your bawling, I say. You 've got to stay 
 and do what I 've told you." 
 
 There was no answer, no other sound save a scuffle 
 of feet along the hall carpeting. Corrie, a little curi 
 ous a little more than curious, now that she had 
 sensed the strange occurrences going on in Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's Corrie on the qui vive, leaned over the balus 
 ters and looked down. What was happening between 
 the two strange characters, these two women who 
 had always acted strangely? And in what relation 
 stood these queer happenings to herself? Corrie had 
 many reasons to peep, so Corrie peeped. 
 
 There was Miss Maria painfully climbing the stair, 
 her head turned back to look toward Mrs. Pinchin's 
 room. She had a handkerchief pressed to her lips, 
 and she was weeping silently, abjectly, piteously. 
 Nor were her tears the tears that Miss Maria so read 
 ily gave way to Miss Maria tired, uncomfortable, 
 cross the tears usual to a weak and, by nature, 
 woe-begone spirit. They betrayed now, instead, every 
 convincing sign of an intense and tragic misery, 
 a sorrow of great emotion. Half way to the land 
 ing she paused suddenly in her funeral-like gait, and 
 Corrie, watching and listening above, heard the thud 
 of Mrs. Pinchin's stick along the hall. 
 
 60
 
 MRS. PINCHIN AND MISS MARIA 
 
 " Come, Maria," said Mrs. Pinchin's voice, soft 
 ened now by a hint of kindness, " you must n't take 
 on like that. I 'd let you go, only the house can't be 
 left." 
 
 She broke off there, her voice filled with meaning ; 
 and bowing her head, Miss Maria started again up 
 the stairs. Instantly Corrie darted out of sight. 
 
 Promptly at ten o'clock, as ordered, Mrs. Pinchin's 
 carriage drove up to her door. It was a small, 
 lightly built brougham, its doors and side panels 
 varnished black, its underbody checked in yellow in 
 imitation of a cane chair seat. The running gear 
 and wheels, together of a dark cobalt, were picked 
 out in a lighter, more racy blue ; and in place of be 
 ing drawn by a single horse, as its build intended, 
 a pair of chestnut roans, big and strong enough to 
 have hauled a much larger equipage, were harnessed 
 to its pole. One, the off horse, which was slightly the 
 smaller of the two, displayed a tendency to go lame 
 in the cannon-bone, where one saw it had been fired 
 for the splint ; but this infirmity was slight, and was 
 more than balanced by the fact that a bog spavin on 
 the hock of its mate was as bad, if not worse. Cas 
 ually, one might have expressed the opinion that Mrs. 
 Pinchin was able to support a sounder pair; but the 
 fact remains that the horses were the first and only 
 ones she had ever owned, and, though worn out and 
 antique, they seemed to her only the more respectable 
 because of their age. Their harness, in conformity 
 with the lightness of the brougham, was itself light ; 
 
 61
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 little heavier, in fact, than that of a road wagon, 
 though this was more than offset by the size and 
 heaviness of the pole chains. They were large, highly 
 polished, and noisy. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin came down the steps supported on 
 one side by the hand rail, on the other by the cane. 
 At her heels Corrie followed bearing a light wrap, a 
 large and bulging, silver-mounted reticule, and a 
 thick brown veil; and at Corrie's heels followed 
 Maggie, the waitress, her arms embracing a paste 
 board box such as tailors use. One by one, wrap, 
 reticule, veil, and paper box were loaded into the 
 brougham under Mrs. Pinchin's directions, and then, 
 with one hand on the carriage door, she gave her 
 orders to the coachman. 
 
 " Go through the Park and down the Avenue. I '11 
 let you know when I want to stop." 
 
 Her man conformed in appearance to the rest of 
 Mrs. Pinchin's turnout. He was a young mulatto, 
 dressed in a light blue livery piped with red, cream- 
 colored doeskins, high boots with russet tops, and, to 
 finish off with, a silk hat topped with a black, shiny 
 cockade. Lurching ahead under a touch of the whip, 
 the roans started ponderously, and the carriage, 
 bounding over the stones with a lively jingle and a 
 clanking of its chains, passed off down the street and, 
 turning at the corner, made for the nearest entrance 
 to the Park. 
 
 On pleasant afternoons Mrs. Pinchin drove both 
 there and in the Avenue; usually, however, in a 
 C-spring victoria, very broad as to its girth and
 
 MRS. PINCHIN AND MISS MARIA 
 
 noticeably wide as to its mudguards. Her look on 
 these occasions, as she lolled back among the cushions, 
 was patterned after the same blank, austere expres 
 sion one noted on the faces of the other carriage 
 folk, who went junketing by in their own victorias, 
 barouches, landaus, whatnots. But that Mrs. Pin- 
 chin, unlike them, had not altogether lost all interest 
 in her surroundings was evident, now and then, in her 
 little glances toward the other vehicles, by the manner 
 in which she took note of their haughty-visaged oc 
 cupants. It was a look of expectancy, as if Mrs. Pin- 
 chin awaited a bow, a nod of recognition from some 
 one of the countless hundreds that rolled by in their 
 oblivion of her and others like her. But somehow 
 the eye turned furtively on the lookout rarely, if ever, 
 recognized a familiar sail in all this argosy, though, 
 of course, in a city as large as New York anyone 
 might drive on forever and never chance on a friend. 
 To-day, however, Mrs. Pinchin wore no air of pa 
 tiently awaiting a bow ; she cast no sidelong glances 
 into the nearby vehicles. She sat, instead, with her 
 hand on the door of the brougham as if to propel it 
 onward, and kept her face set straight before her. 
 Once she leaned from the window and spoke sharply 
 to the coachman. " Drive faster ! " she ordered, and 
 there was an answering clatter of hoofs on the asphalt 
 as the roans sprang forward under the lash. Past 
 Forty-second Street, Twenty-third Street, Fourteenth 
 Street the carriage rolled on. At Ninth Street, 
 however, Mrs. Pinchin stuck her head from the win 
 dow. " Turn west," she ordered briefly ; and the 
 
 63
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 horses, swinging the corner, pounded their way along 
 the dingy, old-fashioned "street. 
 
 " Stop ! " called Mrs. Pinchin, half her body pro 
 truding from the carriage window. 
 
 It might have astonished some of the lady's closer 
 acquaintances had they seen her at the moment. 
 As she loved to tell them, she seldom walked, and un 
 der no circumstances whatever would she think of 
 riding in a public conveyance. This statement was 
 always accompanied by a shrug expressive of her dis 
 taste, as if to ride in a street car, for instance, were 
 to offer one's self voluntarily to all the perils of con 
 tagion, insult, pickpockets, even personal injury, 
 conditions which every gentlewoman should waste 
 no effort to avoid. Furthermore, none of her ac 
 quaintances had ever met her in the street laden down 
 with bundles, a contingency that on the face of it 
 appeared to be absurd. 
 
 But, opening the door of her brougham, Mrs. 
 Pinchin alighted and dragged after her the heavy 
 pasteboard box. The wrap and the veil she had 
 donned during the last stage of her drive; the reti 
 cule hung from her belt. Giving the black brocade 
 skirt a flutter to arrange it, and shrugging her 
 shoulders to settle the jet-trimmed wrap, she looked 
 up and down the street. There was an alert air in her 
 darkly tinted eyes, and her face under the brown veil 
 and the almost turban-like bonnet she wore had, for 
 the moment, lost its usual loose flabbiness of chin and 
 j owl. " You go back to the stable," she ordered, her 
 stick waved up the street as if to point the way. " Go 
 
 64
 
 MRS. PINCHIN AND MISS MARIA 
 
 on, now; I don't need you any more," she added 
 gruffly ; " and don't you stop in anywhere on the way, 
 mind you." 
 
 The astonished mulatto pulled his roans around. 
 He, too, may have wished to ask questions, the 
 questions that any acquaintance of Mrs. Pinchin's 
 might have wished to ask, but the look on Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's grim visage was not the kind to invite inquiry. 
 With another wave of her stick she sent him on the 
 way, standing at the curb and looking after him. But 
 the carriage had scarcely proceeded half up the block, 
 when the coachman, despite the fact that Mrs. Pin- 
 chin might still be watching him, could no longer re 
 sist his curiosity. Swinging around on the box, his 
 face still filled with bewilderment, he looked, and 
 what he saw so profoundly interested him that he 
 pulled up the roans and sat there, a rapt and won 
 dering beholder. 
 
 For Mrs. Pinchin, her stick smartly thwacking the 
 pavement, and the pasteboard box clenched under her 
 arm, had darted over the Sixth Avenue crossing, and 
 now at all her speed was fast disappearing into the 
 outlying slums that fringe old Greenwich Village. 
 
 65
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Which may be described as a chessboard, whereon the several 
 players display their strategy. Reappears Mr. Stanton, 
 Mrs. Pinchin's singular guest, in the suspicious character 
 of an amateur cracksman. Miss Maria's aversion for her 
 patron's friend. Carrie's flight, and the search for the 
 Missing Dwelling. Greenwich Village. The house 
 with the green blinds, the white pillars, and the fan light over 
 the door. Carrie rings the doorbell. 
 
 TF the episode of Mrs. Pinchin abandoning her 
 * carriage in the streets seems curious, not less re 
 markable were the events in that lady's house imme 
 diately on the heels of her departure. Perhaps even 
 remarkable cannot describe them. 
 
 The chestnut roans, ambling away from her door, 
 had no sooner turned the corner toward the Park, 
 when Corrie, darting for the stairs, made at full 
 speed for her room on the top floor. She went 
 noiselessly, her footfalls making little sound on the 
 thick carpet ; but she had no sooner turned the elbow 
 of the stairs above the second story, when Miss 
 Maria's door opened slowly, slyly, and Miss Maria 
 stuck out her head. She still held the handkerchief to 
 her lips, and her eyes, even more watery and inflamed 
 than before, evidenced the tears she had so recently 
 shed and still seemed ready to shed again at the 
 slightest provocation. She stood for a moment listen 
 ing; then tiptoeing to the stairway, she looked up 
 
 66
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN BLINDS 
 
 over the balusters in an attitude of the deepest at 
 tention, and began guardedly to climb the flight. 
 Once one of the treads creaked underfoot, and, press 
 ing the handkerchief convulsively to her lips, Miss 
 Maria waited before going on. Then, as her head 
 reached the level of the floor above, she halted again, 
 her eyes even with the floor ; and like a scout spying 
 over the crest of a hill, Miss Maria looked long and 
 intently toward the door of Corrie's room. It was 
 ajar, and, as Miss Maria peeped, Corrie stepped into 
 the hall suddenly, her hat on, and a light j acket under 
 her arm. 
 
 Instantly the watcher turned and fled down the 
 stairway. Regaining her room at the foot of the 
 flight, she shut the door softly, and then, almost at 
 the same instant, flung it open with a louS rattling of 
 the knob. " Corrie ! " she vociferated. " Corrie ! 
 Corrie! Where are you? " 
 
 At the precise moment Corrie was leaning over the 
 balustrade reconnoitering the floors below. She 
 started guiltily. " Corrie ! " cried Miss Maria again ; 
 and at the second summons the girl shrank back 
 from the railing, and, tossing her coat behind her, 
 snatched off her hat and threw it after the jacket. 
 
 "Yes, Miss Maria; what is it?" asked Corrie, 
 walking half down the stairs. 
 
 If Miss Maria felt any astonishment at the girl's 
 transformation Corrie at one moment hatted and 
 ready for the street, at the next bareheaded and with 
 out her jacket if Miss Maria wondered, indeed, 
 there was no hint of it in her face. " Why don't 
 
 67
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 you answer? " she demanded vexedly. " I 've been 
 calling all over the house fer you. What are you 
 doing? " 
 
 Corrie answered frankly she had heard herself 
 called only once. " I 'm not doing anything, Miss 
 Maria. Do you need me? " 
 
 Miss Maria's eyes dropped under the girl's firm 
 look. " Mrs. Pinchin says you 're to finish the house 
 hold accounts," she grumbled peevishly ; " she wants 
 them when she gets back." 
 
 Corrie murmured an exclamation of astonishment. 
 " The household accounts ! Why, Miss Maria, I gave 
 them to her last night." 
 
 The answer, direct in its unexpectedness, seemed 
 to fill Miss Maria with confusion. " Why now 
 why did you ? " she stammered awkwardly ; " well, 
 I think it 's very strange she did n't tell me. Any 
 way," added Miss Maria, sulkily, " there 's plenty for 
 you to do. Go finish sewing those mull ruffles on Mrs. 
 Pinchin's tea gown. You '11 hear from her if it is n't 
 done ! " 
 
 Corrie opened her mouth as if to say something, 
 changed her mind, and came down the stairs. In 
 Mrs. Pinchin's closet she found the tea gown, and 
 while the fact remains that Corrie had already 
 changed the ruffles as ordered, she folded the gown 
 over her arm, the ruffles inside where Miss Maria could 
 not see them, and walked back to her room. 
 
 Listening at the balusters, Miss Maria heard the 
 girl shut her door. Yet even then she seemed un 
 satisfied, for dragging a rocker to where it com- 
 
 68
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN BLINDS 
 
 manded a view of the stairway, she sat down with her 
 sewing in her hand and began to rock furiously. 
 That she was on the watch was of course evident; 
 and that perhaps she had good cause to be on the 
 lookout was no less evident ten minutes later, when 
 Corrie tiptoed to the stairway and peeped over the 
 rail. 
 
 Once more, Corrie wore her hat and coat, but in 
 stantly warned by the creak of Miss Maria's chair, she 
 drew back hastily. There she stood, frowning and 
 perturbed, and whatever were her reasons for wish 
 ing to go out, it seemed, for the moment, as if Miss 
 Maria had outwitted her. But Miss Maria's strat 
 egy, as it turned out, lacked the same force and de 
 cisiveness as Mrs. Pinchin's. Corrie was going slowly 
 back to her room when a thought struck her, a 
 scheme that brought a smile leaping to her lips. For 
 if Miss Maria had reasons to avoid ordering her 
 pointedly to stay indoors, if Corrie dared not ask 
 permission to go out, there was still a way to get 
 around the matter. 
 
 The wide well of the stairway reached from the 
 lower floor to the roof. Taking off her hat and coat, 
 and rolling them together in a bundle, Corrie leaned 
 over the rail until she could get a glimpse of Miss 
 Maria bent above her sewing. " Now! " exclaimed 
 Corrie to herself, and dropped the hat and coat 
 through the stair well. 
 
 The bundle struck the lower floor with a light 
 thump and bounded out of view. But light as the 
 sound, Miss Maria had heard it, and she leaped up
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 with an exclamation and ran to the balustrade. Noth 
 ing was to be seen, however; there was no one in 
 sight, either above or below, and after peering up 
 the stairs suspiciously, she returned to her seat, where 
 she still sat and rocked and watched alertly. She 
 was still at her vigil when Corrie came uncon 
 cernedly down the stairs. 
 
 The fact that the girl wore neither hat nor coat 
 seemed to reassure Miss Maria that Corrie had given 
 up all hope of stealing out of the house. " Don't 
 forget she wants to wear that tea gown to-night," 
 she warned again pointedly, and Corrie nodding, Miss 
 Maria smiled faintly to herself, and once more bent 
 over her sewing. The smile was as if in acknowl 
 edgment that the victory was her own. 
 
 But once in the lower hall, Corrie's manner of un 
 concern fell from her swiftly. Snatching up her hat 
 and coat, she slipped into the dining room and hastily 
 put them on before the sideboard mirror. The coast 
 still was clear. Straightening her hat and tucking 
 in her sleeves with a few hasty dabs, she turned and 
 sped toward the front door. In a moment she would 
 be in the street. 
 
 But in the same moment a key rattled sharply in 
 the latch. Who was it Mrs. Pinchin? Corrie 
 halted, nervously. There was no time left either to 
 retreat or to slip into the dimly shaded drawing-room 
 on the right ; but close beside her stood a tall, corpu 
 lent floor clock, an antique as to type, yet extremely 
 modern as to its highly varnished woodwork and shiny 
 metal. Any port in a storm, however, and with an 
 
 70
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN BLINDS 
 
 agile movement the girl shrugged up close beside it, 
 her form pressed tightly against the wall, her heart 
 thumping as loudly as the measured tick! tock! of 
 the timepiece. 
 
 As the door slowly opened, admitting a flood of 
 light from the street, Corrie peeped another peep 
 in that morning's round of crafty, prying, furtive 
 doings. A man stood in the doorway also peering 
 cautiously, and it was Mr. Stanton, Mrs. Pinchin's 
 familiar guest. 
 
 Listening a moment, he left the door open behind 
 him, and turned quickly toward that small room on 
 the left, the room where Mrs. Pinchin kept her desk 
 and safe. Raising his hand, he tapped softly, waited 
 a moment with his hawklike face fixed in an air of 
 intense attention, and then tried the knob. It was 
 locked, of course, as Mr. Stanton perhaps expected; 
 for after a sharp look about him, he reached his hand 
 into his pocket, and then drawing it forth fumbled 
 a moment with the lock. 
 
 It was a movement so slight that Corrie could 
 hardly detect it; nor was there any opportunity 
 left to see what else he would do; for just then, as 
 if suspecting her presence, Mr. Stanton turned 
 swiftly and caught sight of Corrie peering from 
 behind the clock. 
 
 As his eyes fell on her, his hawklike face displayed 
 for an instant the least possible hint of confusion. 
 "Ah! it's the dear young girl, isn't it?" he re 
 marked, recovering himself, his tone easy and ban 
 tering. " Bound for a constitutional, I take it," he 
 
 71
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 observed, noting her hat and j acket ; " I trust I 
 have n't detained you ! " 
 
 Corrie emerged in confusion from her hiding-place. 
 " No not you I thought it was Mrs. Pinchin," 
 she faltered, the words slipping from her tongue in 
 her embarrassment. Mr. Stanton laughed outright. 
 
 " What ! The little bird is fleeing from the gilded 
 nest?" he mocked jocosely; "from Mrs. Pinchin's 
 ornamental birdcage ? " 
 
 In the long time that Corrie had known Mr. Stan- 
 ton, or rather, in the years she had seen him coming 
 occasionally to Mrs. Pinchin's, his talk with her had 
 been restricted always to just such bantering; this 
 same jocose, mocking way of his. Perhaps because 
 of it she kept a distance between them when she could, 
 and never evinced the slightest wish to lessen it. " If 
 you 're coming in, Mr. Stanton," she announced 
 coldly, " I '11 go out. Please let me by." 
 
 But instead of moving aside, he still kept his hand 
 on the door knob, effectually blocking the way. 
 " What ! hurrying away from me? " he inquired, 
 beaming j ocosely. " Come, that is n't very nice of 
 you." 
 
 Corrie's clear eyes looked at him unwaveringly. 
 "Do you wish to see Mrs. Pinchin?" she asked 
 abruptly, ignoring both the manner and the words. 
 " I 'm most sorry to say she 's out for the day." 
 
 Immediately Mr. Stanton's merriment departed. 
 " Eh what ? Out for the day ! " he exclaimed. 
 " Why I thought she never arose till noon. She said 
 last night she 'd wait for me. Where 's she gone? " 
 
 72
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN BLINDS 
 
 Corrie shook her head. " I have n't the slightest 
 idea," she was answering, when Miss Maria's voice 
 raised itself, crying shrilly from the floor above. 
 " Corrie ! Corrie ! Where are you ? " 
 
 At the first echo of the voice Corrie's self-posses 
 sion fled. " Let me out, Mr. Stanton," she begged 
 urgently, her head turned to watch the stairway. 
 " Please let me out ! " she pleaded insistently, and 
 edging toward him, the girl tried to slip through the 
 doorway. 
 
 Mr. Stanton, so far from standing aside, still 
 blocked the passage, a faint, quizzical smile on his 
 lips. " Ah ! " he observed, drawling the words leis 
 urely ; " the little bird is, indeed, flitting from the 
 nest. She is spreading her wings, notwithstanding." 
 
 Miss Maria was coming. " Corrie " she cried 
 angrily, her suspicions obviously aroused ; " what 
 are you doing? " 
 
 There on the stairway Miss Maria halted abruptly, 
 peering at the tableau in the doorway. She blinked 
 for a moment, and then her eyes fixed themselves, not 
 on Corrie, but on Mr. Stanton, and blankly stared at 
 him. 
 
 It would have been difficult, from the expression, 
 to identify Miss Maria's emotion. She stood rigid, 
 her head perked forward, her rounded shoulders 
 hunched up awkwardly. Never had Miss Maria 
 seemed so dowdy, so inelegant, so ordinary and unat 
 tractive. Once she moistened her lips, and then, with 
 an uneasy movement, raised her hand and brushed 
 back a wisp of her ginger-hued hair. But whatever 
 
 73
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Miss Maria's feelings, Mr. Stanton on the other 
 hand seemed confidently self-possessed. He looked 
 back at Miss Maria, and on his thin lips was a smile 
 at once gracious, benign, deferential, and utterly and 
 unmistakably mocking. " Ah ! it 's Miss Maria, 
 isn't it?" he ventured cheerfully. "Perhaps Miss 
 Maria can tell where Mrs. Pinchin may be found? " 
 
 If Miss Maria could, she certainly made no effort 
 to do so. Still silent, she still blinked at Mr. Stanton ; 
 and, after waiting a moment, he spoke again. 
 " Where is Mrs. Pinchin ? " he asked, and, leaving 
 the door walked slowly toward her. " Where is 
 she? " he demanded, and this time there was a ring of 
 sharpness in his voice. " Come ! I wish to know ! " 
 
 But after another prolonged blank and expres 
 sionless stare, Miss Maria turned on her heel, and 
 solemnly disappeared. 
 
 "Well, I'll be >" began Mr. Stanton, grinning; 
 
 and then looked around. 
 
 The hallway was deserted but for himself. Cor- 
 rie, during the colloquy, had seized her opportunity, 
 and darting through the doorway, was now hurrying 
 down the street. 
 
 , ** ''; 
 
 Some minutes later Corrie, quite breathless from 
 her walk, boarded a southbound train on the " L." 
 With her hands clasped tightly together in her lap, 
 she gazed from the car window, her eyes fixed vacantly 
 in thought. It was a deep thought, too, pertinent 
 and accusing. The morning's events the scene be 
 tween Miss Maria and Mrs. Pinchin, Miss Maria's 
 
 74
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN BLINDS 
 
 tragic tears, and afterwards her encounter with the 
 singular Mr. Stanton all this had stirred the girl's 
 young mind unusually. For even Corrie, in her queer 
 association with life, knew that morning's doings to 
 be occurrences such as one should hardly look for in 
 well-regulated, ordinary, self-respecting households. 
 What was going on? What was the meaning of it, 
 anyhow? There was even alarm in her mind as she 
 recalled each one of the curious happenings. Who, 
 indeed, was this Mr. Stanton? What, for instance, 
 the antagonism, even the hatred that Miss Maria had 
 shown for him? Had all this, too, something to do 
 with Corrie's own case the mystery of her origin ? 
 But even in the turmoil of her mind she shook her 
 head at the thought not in the least likely ! But 
 then again, what was it? Though ridiculous, ab 
 surd, impossible indeed, there came back to her the 
 thought, the possibility, that once it all were solved, 
 she would find in the solution the answer to her own 
 other queries Corrie Who? and Corrie What? On 
 this very mission too, in fact, Corrie this morning had 
 escaped from Mrs. Pinchm's. 
 
 It was not the first time she had stolen away on the 
 quest. From the time Mrs. Pinchin had said her name 
 was Robinson, from the moment she divined from the 
 admission there was a hidden mystery about herself, 
 Corrie had been carrying on a random hunt through 
 the highways and byways. It was for a house she 
 hunted that same house of which she had spoken to 
 Philip Geikie, Mrs. Pinchin's young and smiling guest. 
 It was a double brick house with white pillars at the 
 
 75
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 door, a fan light over it, green blinds on the windows 
 and a queer little spindle railing on the steps. There 
 Mrs. Pinchin, Miss Maria, and Corrie had lived at the 
 time Corrie talked through a gap in the backyard 
 fence. If Corrie could find the house again, she hoped 
 to find, too, the snub-nosed, brown-haired boy who had 
 tried to tell her what his father knew. Of course Mrs. 
 Pinchin would n't clear up a thing like that, nor was 
 Miss Maria likely to help her. No! she must find 
 the boy himself. For Corrie by this time had decided 
 that whatever the boy meant to tell her was just what 
 Mrs. Pinchin would n't tell, and, at the same time, 
 perhaps a reason why they all had flitted in the 
 night time from the house she now was hunting. 
 
 All sorts of places had known her wanderings in 
 search of it, vagrant moments like this, when she 
 had managed to escape from Mrs. Pinchin's. To-day 
 
 though Mr. Geikie had only j oked to-day Cor 
 rie headed herself for a new quarter, the twisted, 
 haphazard, half-forgotten byways of quaint and 
 quiet, down-at-the-heels Greenwich Village. A joke 
 
 yes ! if one recalled the twinkle in Mr. Geikie's 
 eye. But it was no joke to Corrie. She had caught 
 at it as the drowning man clutches at a straw. 
 
 " Eighth Street ! " bellowed the guard, thrusting 
 back the car door; and Corrie, leaping up from her 
 reverie, followed the few other passengers herding 
 toward the platform. At the sidewalk she paused 
 uncertainly. " Well," she murmured, after a mo 
 ment's reflection, " one way is as good as another. 
 Besides, I 've got to try them all, anyway." Turn- 
 
 76
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN BLINDS 
 
 ing to the west, she hurried down Greenwich Avenue, 
 and, crossing over to the other side, walked down the 
 defile of a narrow, squalid side street. 
 
 The roar of the elevated, the clamor of cable cars, 
 the clatter of trucks, carriages, and all the remaining 
 noises of a busy life faded behind her like the mur 
 muring voice of a heavy sea. Here the city and its 
 striving seemed to have dropped a peg or two, per 
 haps even more than that, its key lowered many oc 
 taves to whispers, pianissimo and somnolent. An oc 
 casional knot of grimy-faced children shrilled at their 
 play along the curbs, or it was a group of loungers 
 at doorway or street corner, shawled women idly 
 gossiping, men with nothing to do; the windows, 
 opened to the spring sunshine, revealed glimpses of 
 the dingy life within; a huckster, his voice softened 
 and attuned by the distance, cried his wares beyond, 
 and the further Corrie walked on from the avenue, 
 plunging into the isolated quarter, the more sleepy 
 and repressed grew the surroundings, the more de 
 tached and unfamiliar from the bustle and activity 
 roaring closely on its sides. 
 
 Studying the houses as she went along, she turned 
 corner after corner, intently on the lookout for that 
 one particular mansion. At times she walked little 
 side streets, quiet, peaceful byways lined with row 
 after row of small, quaint-faced, old-fashioned dwell 
 ings, byways where unfretted silence pervaded as 
 supremely as in the walks of a country churchyard. 
 There were, occasionally, very neat little houses too, 
 the brass plates and bell handles on their doors, the 
 
 77
 
 flags in front and their stone steps scrubbed as neat 
 and clean as a pin ; and even the persons that emerged 
 from their doors or peeped from their windows 
 seemed neat and clean and prim and restful, not at 
 all like the crowds of that great city roaring by just 
 at the street end. 
 
 Then came a part of the quarter where the houses 
 grew more pretentious. They, too, were old-fash 
 ioned, quaint, and prim; in their size and architec 
 ture they recalled a period when persons of more than 
 moderate circumstances had dwelt in Greenwich Vil 
 lage well-to-do merchants, perhaps graduating into 
 merchant princes, rising politicals advancing towards 
 statesmanship, professional men edging into promin 
 ence the upper middle class ready to burst from 
 its chrysalis shell and wing away into upper realms. 
 Corrie stared more intently at these bigger houses, 
 her interest quickening at the sight of them. They 
 seemed known, familiar, like something she had seen 
 before. But all were so hopelessly alike, dozens and 
 dozens of them, row after row together, that her mind 
 became confused and bewildered with their number. 
 
 For all, or nearly all, had green shutters and fan 
 lights over their doors, and some had white pillars 
 and even the spindle railing the very details that 
 Corrie hunted. But in no case were all the details 
 combined ; one or the other was always missing in the 
 general make-up, and, though ever tempted onward 
 by some other house a little further along, she reached 
 it only to know at a glance she must still keep on 
 hunting for the lost, mysterious mansion. 
 
 78
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN BONDS 
 
 " Oh dear ! " murmured Corrie, halting at a corner 
 under a street lamp; " where am I? Ravine Street! 
 Ravine ? Ravine ? " she repeated reflectively ; " have 
 I ever heard that name? " 
 
 There she stood, still looking at the sign, when a 
 voice suddenly broke in on her reflections. 
 
 " It is, and it is n't," uttered the voice laugh 
 ingly. " Yes it is, why it 's Miss Robinson after 
 all." 
 
 Corrie turned, and to her intense astonishment, 
 it was young Mr. Geikie, hat in hand, regarding her 
 with merriment. 
 
 " Why, where did you come from ? " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Where did you drop from yourself? " he retorted. 
 " Out of the skies ? But I can guess ; you 're hunt 
 ing for your missing house." Glancing up and down 
 the block, he looked back at her drolly. " Found it 
 yet?" 
 
 Corrie shook her head and made a little face ex 
 pressive of despair. 
 
 " Dear ! dear ! that 's too bad ! " he observed sym 
 pathetically, his eye covertly taking in Corrie's trim 
 change from the dowdiness of the night before, the 
 soft silkiness of her hair piled up beneath her hat, 
 the shapeliness of her lithe young form revealed by 
 the closely fitting jacket. But if the first look were 
 covert, it was more than offset by his eyes' succeeding 
 gleam of frank admiration. " Sorry you have n't 
 had more luck," he added sincerely. " Now, if you 
 could only tell me a little more about it, maybe 
 
 I " He broke off there, his eyes filled with fun. 
 
 79
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " You have n't told me yet why you 're hunting it," 
 he laughed, " or I 'd say advertise. There 's nothing 
 like it. Lost," he laughed ; " Lost : a fairy castle 
 of brick with green blinds, white pillars at the door, 
 and a fan light. A suitable reward will be offered, 
 and no questions asked." 
 
 Corrie, too, after a moment, laughed with him. 
 " Yes," she answered ; yet there was a hidden gravity 
 in her own whimsical words ; " it was a fairy palace, 
 for in it dwelt an ugly duckling who was never al 
 lowed to become anything else. There was an old 
 ogre who lived there, besides ; and, all of a sudden, 
 the castle vanished over night. Just because a 
 Prince Charming with brown hair came riding up to 
 the rescue. He had a snub nose, too ! " exclaimed 
 Corrie. " There ! if you want to know ! " 
 
 The young man clucked his tongue in astonish 
 ment. " My ! my ! all that happen in Greenwich Vil 
 lage, and never get into the newspapers? When did 
 it all take place ? " 
 
 " Ages and ages ago," she replied with a light 
 evasion of the true answer. " But tell me," she in 
 quired, indicating with a glance the long row of 
 old-fashioned dwellings, " are these the houses you 
 meant? I don't seem to find mine among them." 
 
 He shook his head promptly. " These ? Oh, no, 
 indeed! Do you really wish to see a house such as 
 the one you describe? " His tone and manner were 
 distinctly serious, yet if Corrie had watched him nar 
 rowly, she might have seen, as on the night before, 
 another twinkle dancing in the corner of his eye. 
 
 80
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN BLINDS 
 
 " My ! I wish I could go with you ! Can't you put it 
 off say till this afternoon ? Or to-morrow, maybe ; 
 I could go up to Mrs. Pinchin's and get you." 
 
 He looked at her pleadingly ; but Corrie shook her 
 head, her eyes filled with amusement. " Oh, won't 
 you let me ? " he asked again. " I can't tell you how 
 much I 'd like it." 
 
 " So would I, Mr. Geikie. I 'm sure I would, and 
 then " a telling pause " I 'm just as sure Mrs. 
 Pinchin would n't." 
 
 The young man boyishly wrinkled his brow with 
 disappointment. " Well, if you won't, then I suppose 
 I '11 have to let you go alone. But look out," he 
 cried, his face breaking anew into its smile, as if at a 
 hidden joke ; " look out some ogre does n't jump out 
 of that house and grab you ; for I 'm sure it 's the 
 same one, the very house, or one as much like it as two 
 peas in a pod. Two blocks straight away, and then 
 turn to the left. You '11 see it across the street, No. 57 
 Hedge Street, and mind ! look out for the ogre ! " 
 
 Corrie shook hands with him, and repeating the 
 number, 57 Hedge Street, left him standing on 
 the corner. Half-way down the block she looked 
 back, and he was still waiting there, as if to be sure 
 she knew the way. " Oh ! " she murmured, a faint 
 pink stealing into her cheeks ; and ignoring the hand 
 waved gaily at her, she hurried onward faster. 
 
 At the second block she turned as directed. It 
 
 was another of those quaint little streets, a remnant 
 
 of bygone, old-fashioned New York, and now fast 
 
 going to seed. On the corner an ugly, modern 
 
 6 81
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 apartment house raised its yellow, gingerbread face, 
 its cheap and tawdry decoration a strong contrast to 
 the simplicity of the ancient dwellings under its lee. 
 On the street level a grocery of the smaller kind 
 filled the air with the reek of salted fish and spice and 
 the odor of wilted fruit and vegetables displayed on 
 the racks outside; and in the doorway the aproned 
 grocer and two women with shawls over their heads 
 haggled stridently. This was the only sign of life 
 visible in the block. 
 
 Corrie hurried past, and the instant her eyes fell on 
 the houses opposite she uttered a murmur of aston 
 ishment. No. 57 Hedge Street ! there it was ! 
 And No. 57, too, was a double brick house, green 
 shutters at the windows, pillars at the door, a fan 
 light over the entrance, and a thin, gracefully 
 wrought, iron spindle railing at the front. Corrie, 
 her heart thumping, paused and stared. It was, as 
 young Phil Geikie had said, as alike as two peas in the 
 same pod an exact duplicate, a twin, a brother to 
 the house she sought. 
 
 " No ! " gasped Corrie ; it was the missing man 
 sion itself! Could there be a mistake? She took 
 her eyes from it, and bit her lip in thought. The 
 house she hunted had, as she recalled, stood on the 
 uptown side of the street ; this was on the downtown. 
 But it had been a long while ago ; her memory must 
 be at fault. Again she looked back at it. The house 
 was the one she looked for the one she had so 
 patiently hunted up and down the highways, byways, 
 streets, and avenues of the town ! There could be no
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN BLINDS 
 
 error, for back in her mind its image had always 
 lived, an image that had survived with other memories 
 of the long ago among vague details of her early 
 childhood. Trembling, eager, emotional, she stood 
 rooted to the curb, gazing at the house, a flood of 
 recollections pouring back into her head at the sight 
 of the old, familiar face. Unlike its fellows though 
 nearly all were still trimly kept it wore an added 
 air of smartness, a neater, distinguishing tone of gen 
 tility above the middle class. A gentleman's house, 
 one instantly would have said ; and, beside its dig 
 nified simpleness the rowdy, swaggering tenement on 
 the corner seemed to fade away, and in place of the 
 two shawled drabs haggling with the aproned grocer, 
 one might have looked to see a buck in strapped pan 
 taloons, and high, furred beaver doing the elegant 
 before a pair of hoopskirts and crinoline. 
 
 For a moment Corrie gazed at its windows, almost 
 expecting to catch a glimpse of either Mrs. Pinchin 
 or Miss Maria, or, perhaps, of her own younger self 
 peering forth in gingham and pigtails. But no such 
 vision appeared; no ogre, either, darted forth, as if 
 out of a nightmare, to drag her to a dark upstairs 
 room. Alone she stood and looked, watching, de 
 bating, wondering. Was it really, really and with 
 out mistake, the house? Now that she had found it, 
 she must make sure without a doubt. 
 
 So crossing the street, after this moment's hesi 
 tation, Corrie walked up its steps, and, with her 
 breath coming fast, deliberately rang the doorbell. 
 
 83
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin's homecoming, and the resultant misery of her 
 poor relation. What happened when Mrs. Pinchin found 
 that her lock had been tampered with. The old-fashioned 
 portrait album, and its picture of the woman with the dark, 
 shadowy eyes. Mrs. Pinchin's accusation, and her com 
 panion's unlooked-for attitude. Why Corrie had been 
 adopted. Mrs. Pinchin figuratively alights from her 
 equally figurative high horse. Her fear of a stroke. 
 
 THE shades had been drawn, the gas already 
 lighted at Mrs. Pinchin's when that lady herself 
 limped painfully up the street and climbed the front 
 steps of her house. In the fading light of the dusk, 
 one saw that her almost turban-like bonnet was tilted 
 back from her head, and that the brown veil hanging 
 from it had been thrust away from her face and rolled 
 up into a thick, disordered fold. Both from Mrs. 
 Pinchin's haggard look and the way her cane 
 dragged along the stonework one knew her to be 
 fatigued, thoroughly tired out an unaccustomed 
 weariness in one of her self-indulgent nature. Nor, 
 it appeared, had Mrs. Pinchin's temper become im 
 proved by either her fatigue or her day away from 
 home; for when she rang her doorbell, she had no 
 sooner removed her finger from the button than she 
 put it back again and held it there, pressing firmly. 
 Also, while she waited, Mrs. Pinchin beat a lively 
 
 84
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S HOME-COMING 
 
 tattoo on the door with her stick, occasionally paus 
 ing to rattle the knob energetically. 
 
 It was Miss Maria who answered, at last. She 
 pulled open the door timidly, and was just peering 
 forth to see who announced herself with such vigor, 
 when a hearty push nearly sent her head over heels 
 backward into the hallway. 
 
 " Well ! " snorted Mrs. Pinchin, stalking into the 
 light. " Is this the way my house is run during my 
 absence ? " 
 
 Leaning her cane against the hatstand, she dragged 
 off her hat and veil irritably, and tossed them down 
 beside her. " Well ? " she snapped again, and both 
 the word and the glare that went with it voiced an 
 anxious inquiry. " Well? " she repeated. 
 
 Miss Maria, after closing the door behind Mrs. 
 Pinchin, had turned with her fingers nervously en 
 twining themselves. She seemed not to have heard 
 the other's question. "What has happened?" she 
 asked rapidly, one of her hands stealing to her 
 breast to pluck at the hem of her waist. " Oh, don't 
 keep me waiting ! " she pleaded. " Have you no news 
 for me? " 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin deliberately went on unfastening the 
 hooks of her wrap. " News ? Huh ! stop looking at 
 me like that ! Don't you suppose I 'd tell you if there 
 was any ? " Her manner was dark, moody, more than 
 peevish not merely fretful because of her fatigue. 
 " There 's nothing to tell you. There 's no change 
 at all." 
 
 Again Miss Maria twined her fingers together 
 85
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 and crept a little closer. " Oh, can't you tell me 
 anything something more than that ? " she 
 pleaded,, indeed implored. " Are you keeping any 
 thing away from me ? " 
 
 At once Mrs. Pinchin turned on her belligerently. 
 " You see here ! " she growled, almost grunted, such 
 was the thickness of her voice ; " have n't I told you 
 once there was no change? What more do you want?" 
 Ruffled and irate, she stripped the wrap from her 
 shoulders and scowled darkly; her thick lips pressed 
 themselves together, working vigorously. It was 
 obvious, whatever the cause of Miss Maria's sup- 
 pliance, whatever the reason for the misery in her 
 face, that Mrs. Pinchin felt no sympathy for it. In 
 stead, it seemed only to add irritation to the already 
 strong emotions under which she herself was labor 
 ing. " Where 's that girl Corrie ? " she demanded 
 suddenly. " What 's she been about all day ? " 
 
 It was no very good account that Miss Maria had 
 to give of Mrs. Pinchin's paid companion ; or, at 
 least, so Mrs. Pinchin thought. For " What ! " she 
 exclaimed, her eyes gleaming like embers beneath her 
 drooping lids, her voice filled with exasperation ; 
 " and you let her get out, after what I told you? " 
 
 Miss Maria tried to falter explanations. " That 
 man him," she began hesitatingly ; ** you know 
 the one " this meaningly " he stood at the 
 door talking to her, and I could n't get down and 
 stdp her." 
 
 But the explanation, so far from appeasing Mrs. 
 Pinchin, served only the more to enrage her. 
 
 86
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S HOME-COMING 
 
 " That 's the way it always is ! " she cried excitedly, 
 her flabby j owls trembling with intensity ; " every 
 thing goes to sixes and sevens, of course, unless I 'm 
 here all the time. Why did n't you stop her, I say? " 
 Miss Maria twisted her fingers nervously together 
 again. " Why, how could I? " she faltered miser 
 ably ; " he was there, and " 
 
 A snort interrupted her. " You mean to say 
 
 Oh, fiddlesticks ! huh ! " growled Mrs. Pinchin, con 
 temptuously. " Honestly, Maria, I don't believe you 
 have the spirit of a gnat ! " 
 
 She began lifting up the hem of her skirt while 
 she spoke, her hand fishing into an inner, hiddert 
 pocket. " Oh, well ! " she muttered crossly, pro 
 ducing a bunch of keys that rattled emphasis to her 
 words, " I suppose I '11 have to stand the burden of 
 everything in this house, won't I ? " Selecting one 
 of the keys, she stuck it into the door of the room at 
 her side. " Huh, Maria ! " she had begun to say 
 again, when of a sudden she stopped, and glanced 
 downward curiously. With a wrench of her strong 
 fingers, she unlocked the door, shoved it open, and 
 then pulled out the key. " Who 's been in this room, 
 to-day? Who's been tampering with this lock?" 
 whispered Mrs. Pinchin in a hissing shrillness; and, 
 with the words, the leathery hue crept from her 
 face and a pasty pallor crept into it. " Tell me ! " 
 she cried furiously, for on the key was a thick smear 
 of some waxy substance ; the lock seemed clogged with 
 it, too. 
 
 Miss Maria gasped at her stupidly. " Who 's 
 87
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 been in my room ? " repeated Mrs. Pinchin, her face 
 terrible. " I say someone has been here ! " 
 
 But nothing had been disturbed; the room, so 
 far as she could see, was as she had left it in the 
 morning. She turned around again to Miss Maria, 
 and Miss Maria helplessly shook her head. " I 
 don't know unless he tried that man, I mean ! 
 Maybe- -" 
 
 Miss Pinchin again silenced her with a snort, her 
 teeth bared in contempt. " Him? you idiot ! 
 you ninny ! " she mocked derisively. " I suppose 
 you 'd accuse him of anything. Come now, get 
 your wits about you ! Who 's been working at this 
 lock?" 
 
 But without waiting for the answer, Mrs. Pinchin 
 straightened up with a jerk. " I know who it was ! " 
 she cried, certainty and a kind of questionable tri 
 umph in her voice ; " it was that girl. Yes, it was ! 
 Did n't I warn you she 'd be up to some such trick, 
 snooping and sneaking around, sticking her nose into 
 my affairs." In her anger whatever elegance or nicety 
 of speech Mrs. Pinchin possessed now seemed to have 
 left her. " I '11 fix her, though. I '11 know if she 's 
 going to spy on me," she grated threateningly. 
 " You see about dinner. I 'm going up to settle with 
 her now ! " 
 
 Hopping to the hatstand, Mrs. Pinchin snatched 
 up her cane, and thumped away up the stairs. At 
 every step she pounded the floor noisily, and at every 
 thump she tossed her head on her shoulders. " The 
 hussy ! I '11 attend to her. I '11 see ! I '11 see ! " she 
 
 88
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S HOME-COMING 
 
 cried truculently, dragging herself along by the 
 handrail ; and so nursing her wrath and in a mood to 
 free her mind of many things, Mrs. Pinchin climbed 
 to the top floor where she unceremoniously thrust 
 open the door of Corrie's bedchamber. 
 
 " You ! " cried Mrs. Pinchin, and levelled her cane 
 at the girl. 
 
 Corrie, standing at a table near the gas bracket, 
 was slowly turning the pages of a book. It was a fat, 
 leather volume, fitted with a brass clasp, and filled 
 with many portraits of a day long ago. One face 
 among them appeared again and again, singly or 
 in a group of other faces a young, dark-eyed 
 woman, the softness of whose dark eyes and quiet 
 smile still lived in the dim, faded prints. Who was 
 she ? Corrie, gazing pensively back into the eyes, was 
 wondering who when the door fell open at Mrs. 
 Pinchin's noisy entrance. " You ! " cried Mrs. Pin- 
 chin ; and Corrie, with a movement inconceivably 
 swift and secretive, thrust the book behind her and 
 beneath a pile of other books that lay there on the 
 table. Pale, disturbed, yet still in command of her 
 self, she faced both the cane and the woman who 
 held it ; and so they stood one white and still, the 
 other shaken with wrath. 
 
 "What is it you wish, Mrs. Pinchin?" 
 
 The cane wagged itself at Corrie like a huge, ac 
 cusing finger. "Injured innocence, hey?" she 
 mocked scornfully. " Come ! none of that ! I know 
 what you 've been up to ! " she snapped, her cane 
 again wagging its signal of righteous rage. " What
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 !do you mean by going into my room unasked? like 
 a housebreaker, too ! " 
 
 "Your room? unasked?" echoed Corrie, be- 
 wilderedly. " I went into your room to get your 
 gown to sew the ruffles on it, Mrs. Pinchin." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin stamped the floor with both cane 
 and foot together. " Don't you try to evade me like 
 that ! " she warned. " None of your stories now. 
 You know where I mean. You 've been snooping in 
 my room downstairs the room where I keep my 
 desk. I want to know the reason why." 
 
 Corrie drew in her breath, again bewildered. 
 "The downstairs room? I haven't been near it. 
 What do you mean ? " 
 
 Anyone possessed of less rage than Mrs. Pinchin 
 must have known that Corrie spoke the truth. But 
 so far from believing her, Mrs. Pinchin worked her 
 jaws irately, and again menaced Corrie with her 
 stick. 
 
 " How dare you tell me such a story? How dare 
 you?" 
 
 "Stop!" said Corrie, firmly. "Stop, Mrs. 
 Pinchin!" 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin stopped, gaping and dumbfounded. 
 It was the first time in a long while that anyone 
 had dictated to her ; to be told to stop to be de 
 nied even the slight privilege of tongue-lashing her 
 paid companion must have seemed incredible. 
 
 " Stop ! " repeated Corrie, quietly ; " you must not 
 speak to me like that." 
 
 "Talk to you like what?" stammered Mrs. 
 90
 
 " Stop !" said Come, firmly. " Stop, Mrs. Pinchin ! " Mrs. 
 Piiichin stopped, gaping and dumbfounded.
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S HOME-COMING 
 
 Pinchin, foolishly, now thoroughly nonplussed. 
 " Have you the audacity ? " 
 
 The girl silenced her with an uplifted hand. " Mrs. 
 Pinchin," she said, with a simple dignity in strong 
 contrast to Mrs. Pinchin's warmth, " I wish you 
 would sit down for a moment. I have something I 'd 
 like to say to you. Sit there, won't you? " she asked, 
 gravely pointing to a chair at the other's side. 
 
 Gasping, gaping, still dumbfounded and dazed, 
 Mrs. Pinchin tried for a moment to regain her wan 
 ing mastery. But the scowl failed in its purpose, 
 and with a snort, a rumbling mutter of wrath, Mrs. 
 Pinchin sat, or, rather, she fell limply, on the chair 
 that Corrie pointed at. " I think I shall have a 
 stroke another stroke ! " Mrs. Pinchin echoed to 
 herself. " This girl will be the death of me ! " 
 
 Corrie stood looking down at her reflectively, 
 pausing a moment while Mrs. Pinchin worked her 
 jaws up and down. " Mrs. Pinchin, you adopted me, 
 did n't you ? " she asked abruptly, and then went on, 
 as if she took Mrs. Pinchin's glare for her answer. 
 " You adopted me, but I 've yet to learn where you 
 got me. I 've yet to learn, too, why you adopted me, 
 and why you brought me up. I suppose I ought to 
 be grateful to you, and perhaps, if I only knew the 
 truth, I might be. But I don't know the truth, Mrs. 
 Pinchin. I don't know who I am, or even what I 
 am whether I have a name, or even a right to one. 
 But now I 'm going to find out ! Will you tell me, 
 Mrs. Pinchin?" 
 
 During these few words, Mrs. Pinchin had ceased 
 91
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 to work her jaws, though she still frowned; and 
 presently, putting both hands over the stick, she 
 leaned forward and forced a grin to her lips. It 
 seemed as if she were almost amused. 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Corrie, suddenly thrusting out both 
 hands. " Oh, please, please, Mrs. Pinchin, won't you 
 tell me my name my real name ? " 
 
 The grin grew a little wider, almost sardonic. 
 "Name? How often must you be told it's 
 Robinson? " 
 
 Corrie drew back sadly. " No," she murmured 
 distressfully, " it is not that not even Robinson 
 Brown or Smith or Robinson. That was just a 
 cruel untruth of yours. I 've at least learned that." 
 
 The grin died suddenly, replaced by a look almost 
 of consternation. "What's that you're saying?" 
 demanded Mrs. Pinchin, leaning a little closer, her 
 eyes turned searchingly on the girl's. " You 've 
 learned? Who 's been talking to you? Who 's told 
 you it is n't Robinson ? " 
 
 " No one has been talking to me, Mrs. Pinchin. 
 No one needed to tell me. I know it myself." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin shook herself. Some of the uneasi 
 ness died out of her face; her wrath regained itself 
 instantly. " You say I 've told you an untruth ! 
 How dare you ! " she repeated bellicosely. 
 
 But the girl was not to be silenced now. " It was 
 an untruth," she retorted sorrowfully ; " and you 
 knew it to be untrue when you told it. But you 
 know who I am, Mrs. Pinchin, I am very sure; 
 and oh, if you '11 only tell me, I '11 work for you day 
 
 92
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S HOME-COMING 
 
 and night, Mrs. Pinchin I '11 stay with you for 
 ever and do all you tell me. But won't you please, 
 please, please tell me who I am? Just that and I 
 won't ask you any more." 
 
 " Who you are! " croaked Mrs. Pinchin, lurching 
 up from her chair and shaking her stick at the 
 pleader. " You 're a bold, ungrateful hussy that 's 
 what you are! Your name is Robinson, and I got 
 you out of a beggar's hovel, and if the name 
 does n't suit you," she cried, all in a breath, " you 
 can take one to suit yourself! Who you are, in 
 deed ! " she repeated. " Why, for half what you Ve 
 said to me, any other woman would turn you out of 
 doors ! " 
 
 Corrie waited for the outburst to end itself. 
 " There won't be any need to turn me out, Mrs. Pin- 
 chin," she responded, once more a wistful smile on 
 her lips, " for I am going away from you of my own 
 wish, without waiting for you to dismiss me. 
 Shall it be to-morrow, or to-night? I have very 
 little to pack." 
 
 Perhaps Mrs. Pinchin was unready ; perhaps she 
 had not expected this. Again her mouth opened; 
 in her amazement, the wrath faded from her face, and 
 with every indication of astonishment and dismay, 
 Mrs. Pinchin fell back on the chair again and gazed 
 at Corrie. 
 
 " Going? Going away? " she repeated, under her 
 breath, and in all the many contending bursts of her 
 passion, changes from contempt to wrath, amusement 
 to rage, dismay to insulting anger, this swift turn 
 
 93
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 to consternation appeared the most powerful emo 
 tion of all. " Going away ? You sha' n't ! I won't 
 let you. You sha' n't you sha' n't ! " 
 
 . " Yes, Mrs. Pinchin ; though you adopted me, I 
 am at least my own master now. Unless you tell me 
 who I am, I shall go away." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin drew a heavy breath. She took a 
 fresh grip on her cane handle, and, averting her eyes, 
 for a long while studied the threadbare carpet of her 
 companion's room. Corrie waited silently, and then 
 when Mrs. Pinchin spoke again, it was as if Mrs. 
 Pinchin, in the minute's deliberation, had come to a 
 quick decision. Leaning a little closer, she noisily 
 cleared her throat. 
 
 " My dear, dear young girl," she began, her tone 
 almost placating, and halted when she said it. The 
 change had been too abrupt, perhaps, for, clearing 
 her throat, Mrs. Pinchin tried again in a less endear 
 ing strain. " My girl," said she, with an uneasy 
 gentleness in her voice, " you must n't leave me. 
 I could n't think of that. Why ! " she exclaimed, 
 boldly attempting a note of pity ; " where could you 
 go, a frail, young thing like you ? No ; you must n't 
 think of it. You must stay with me, dear. Perhaps 
 it 's hard for you ; for I know, of course, I 'm a cross 
 and irritable old woman. But I don't mean anything 
 by it. I I why, I just lose my temper, that 's 
 all. Yes ! " she affirmed eagerly ; " but I don't mean 
 anything by it. Now just you forget I 've been 
 so cross, Corrie, and we '11 try to get along better in 
 the future. Yes, yes, we must. And you must n't 
 
 94
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S HOME-COMING 
 
 work so hard after this, either. I 've been noticing, 
 lately, you look tired. You must make the maids 
 help you. Yes ! I can't have you tiring yourself 
 out. So now it's settled, isn't it?" croaked Mrs. 
 Pinchin, suddenly, and looked at her with the 
 brightest, most hopeful expression in the world. 
 
 Corrie gazed at her with troubled eyes. " I 
 don't know, Mrs. Pinchin. Are you going to tell me 
 who I am? " 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin's lips opened swiftly as if about to 
 say something, but after a slight contortion of her 
 face, she emitted only a dry, chocking gulp. " Oh, 
 yes ! About yourself, of course, Corrie ! " she an 
 swered, the spasm in her throat passing away. 
 " Honestly, now, I 've told you all I know. Their 
 name was Robinson; and they lived in one of my 
 houses. They moved away afterward, and oh, 
 yes, as I remember now, they owed me a lot of rent 
 months and months unpaid rent. I 've forgotten 
 how much, but I think let me see why, it 
 was more than six months, all that, anyway. No, 
 you 've no idea how much rent people have gone 
 away without " 
 
 "Which house did they live in, Mrs. Pinchin?" 
 asked Corrie, interrupting the tale of Mrs. Pinchin's 
 delinquent tenants. 
 
 " Which one? " echoed Mrs. Pinchin, swiftly, her 
 eyes darting at her. " Oh, I forgot. No, I remember 
 now. It was torn down, years and years ago to 
 make way for a for a why, a bake-shop ! " she 
 ended, with a gulp. 
 
 95
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Corrie fastened her eyes on Mrs. Pinchin and kept 
 them there. " You remember no more, then, Mrs. 
 Pinchin?" she asked slowly; "and it is the truth 
 you 've told me? " she went on hollowly. Mrs. Pinchin 
 nodded and continued to nod, vigorously and with 
 growing emphasis. " Very well, then, Mrs. Pinchin ; 
 I shall stay here as you say. For I think some day 
 you will remember more about it, and then, of course, 
 you will tell me. Perhaps it will be when you are 
 dying, Mrs. Pinchin," the girl added remorselessly, 
 ignoring the pallor that leaped into the other woman's 
 face at the words ; " on your death-bed, Mrs. Pin- 
 chin. Perhaps you will tell me then." 
 
 As Mrs. Pinchin limped down the stairs, her hand 
 went fluttering to her throat. She gained her room, 
 and without waiting to turn up the lowered light, 
 hastened to the stand near her bed. There stood the 
 decanter of sherry, and filling a glass, her hand 
 trembling so that the wine spilled over, Mrs. Pinchin 
 gulped it down. Immediately, she filled a second 
 glass, and sipping this more slowly, her nostrils dis 
 tended and her thick lips smacking loudly, she dully 
 looked around her. 
 
 " Some day some day," she muttered brokenly ; 
 " some day I shall really have another stroke. A real 
 stroke ! " she repeated in a hollow whisper ; " some 
 day I shall have a stroke. I must be more careful 
 of myself ! " 
 
 96
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Relating the extraordinary results achieved by ringing the door 
 bell of an unknown New York house. Little Mr. Bigga- 
 more and his garden. The house at the rear. Mr. Big- 
 gamore's peculiar behavior concerning his unknown 
 neighbor. Corrie's dismay and hopelessness. The Miss 
 ing Dwelling at last! Reappearance of Mrs. Pinchin, its 
 significance, and Corrie's justifiable alarms. 
 
 mere act of ringing a doorbell, when one 
 * knows who lives within, is, in itself, a matter of 
 no great significance, either dramatically or other 
 wise. But to walk up to an unknown portal, espe 
 cially in a secluded quarter of New York to climb 
 the steps and to jerk the bell hanger, even though it 
 be done with the utmost confidence this, one 
 must allow, is fraught with no end of possibilities, 
 and notably so, if one has no very substantial rea 
 sons for ringing. 
 
 But Corrie has been left standing on the steps 
 of an unknown person's house, absorbed in this very 
 venture. She rang, as it has been said, and at the 
 first submerged tinkle in the dwelling's depths, she 
 awoke with a start to the impulsive absurdity of her 
 position. For who would answer the bell, and what 
 should she say to them when they came? All in a 
 flutter, Corrie waited, flushing with self-conscious 
 ness, and tempted a dozen times to take to her heels 
 in flight. 
 
 7 97
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 It was a broad door before which she trembled so 
 uncertainly a door portly, well-kept, and dignified. 
 Directly at the center of its panelling a highly pol 
 ished letter drop gleamed like an alderman's watch 
 chain ; and above and about on a level with Corrie's 
 head an antique knocker shaped into a satyr's head, 
 with a garland hanging from its teeth, handsomely 
 stared her out of countenance, grinning as if aware 
 of her confusion. Corrie was still frowning back at 
 its impudence when the sound of footfalls within 
 warned her to be ready. 
 
 The door opened, and a face cautiously obtruded 
 itself. It was a servant, she saw to her relief, some 
 sort of an ancient retainer wearing neither cap nor 
 apron, and with the New York servant's early morn 
 ing manner, on guard against unwelcome intruders. 
 But a glance at Corrie seemed to reassure her, and 
 she threw open the door widely, and respectfully 
 stood at one side. 
 
 " Good morning," said Corrie ; " I would like to 
 see your mistress." 
 
 The aged retainer's air of caution returned. 
 " Not at home, ma'am. She ain't either, 'cause she 's 
 just gone out." 
 
 Corrie wrinkled her brow disappointedly. " Is 
 any other member of the family at home, then? " she 
 inquired, after a thought. 
 
 The servant eyed Corrie dubiously, as if all early 
 morning visitors were open to her suspicion. 
 " Dunno, ma'am ; I '11 go ask him," she answered, 
 with unwitting frankness, and with another cautious 
 
 98
 
 MR. BIGGAMORE AND HIS GARDEN 
 
 stare grudgingly invited Corrie into the hallway, 
 and left her standing there. 
 
 Corrie waited, her eyes flitting about, and a host 
 of memories charging through her mind. It was 
 the same old hall, she saw excitedly, the same stair 
 way she had known of old, though the decorations 
 and furnishings had suffered a change since Mrs. 
 Pinchin's reign. A thorough change, too, one would 
 have said; for in place of a florid array of bric-a- 
 brac and the flashy choice Mrs. Pinchin made of up 
 holstery, hangings, and pictures, Corrie got a 
 glimpse of a quiet and dignified interior. On the 
 wall beside her, for instance, a small, exquisite etch 
 ing, a fragment like the chip from a gem, replaced 
 the still life of fruit Corrie remembered; opposite 
 it hung another, equally small and choice, and lining 
 the stairway as far up as she could see, the rising 
 wall was filled with rare old copper prints, rarely 
 chosen, a few old time woodcuts, and here and there 
 a touch of color, quaintly antique. A tall clock, 
 also genuinely old, ticked solemnly by the wall op 
 posite the newel post, and beyond it a divan with 
 claw feet and a deep, comfortable back sprawled 
 easefully, the very look of it cheerfully inviting 
 repose. Corrie took note of this and was trying 
 to peep further, when a labored breathing on 
 the basement stairs warned her of the servant's 
 return. 
 
 " Please, ma'am, he says if you ain't a book agent 
 or anything, you are to come down. Mr. Bigga- 
 more 's in the garden." 
 
 99
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " In the garden ? oh, thank you," murmured 
 Corrie, nodding. She had started on the way uncon 
 sciously, when the servant's exclamation of astonish 
 ment stopped her. " Would n't you be letting me 
 show you the way, ma'am? " 
 
 It was hardly necessary, but realizing the home was 
 no longer hers, Corrie let the servant precede her. 
 But unguided, alone, blindfolded, or in the dark, she 
 could have traveled that passage surely and with cer 
 tainty, knowing every inch of the way from the hall 
 way to the garden at the rear. 
 
 Their way led by the dining room and through the 
 tall French windows to the porch outside. Corrie, 
 as she went along, took in the old, familiar room, its 
 high walls, its open fireplace and marble mantel, its 
 dark woodwork and the queer, old-fashioned bronze 
 gas brackets and chandelier. But now it all wore a 
 changed habit, a newer look of distinction ; its ma 
 hogany table, richly polished and as deep in tone as 
 the breast of a forest pool; its sideboard and china 
 closets, its Sheraton chairs, its plate and ornaments 
 of Delft, and, on the walls, its ancestral portraits 
 in oil all harmonizing closely with the prim, old- 
 fashioned character of the house. 
 
 " Mind the step, ma'am," cautioned the servant, 
 and Corrie nodded again, as she walked out to the 
 porch beyond. For how often, as a child, had she 
 crossed that step, skipped along the high veranda, 
 and so gone on into the garden that lay there below ! 
 Her eyes sparkled, a lively color mounted her cheeks, 
 and she lived as a child again, animated and eager. 
 
 100
 
 MR. BIGGAMORE AND HIS GARDEN 
 
 So Mr. Biggamore saw her as she came down the 
 steps toward him. 
 
 He, too, harmonized with this retreat of his, a per 
 son as quaintly old-fashioned as one would expect to 
 find in these quaint, old-fashioned surroundings. A 
 pair of large, steel-rimmed spectacles balanced them 
 selves on the tip of Mr. Biggamore's nose, and in his 
 long-tailed coat, his flapping wide-awake and broad, 
 thick, white scarf, fastened with a coral pin, he looked 
 not unlike some little old gentleman just stepped out 
 of the pages of an early century almanac. 
 
 But for one with a name so suggestively stalwart 
 and ample, Mr. Biggamore somehow fell short of the 
 expectations, being neither burly nor majestic, but, 
 on the other hand, rather more chubby than anything 
 else, and almost boyish in the rotundity of his figure. 
 A wisp of hair hung over his right brow, and in mo 
 ments of meditation, or when he was interested or ex 
 cited or otherwise moved, Mr. Biggamore reached for 
 it, and slowly twined it about his finger, his head 
 perked at one side during the process, and his eyes, 
 like a bright little bird's, peering out intently from 
 under his hand. 
 
 Resting on his shovel, he looked up at the girlish 
 visitor with a very sudden astonishment. " Why 
 why my dear young lady ! " he exclaimed, in 
 quick apology. " My servant told me she thought 
 Why, let me hand you to the drawing-room, won't 
 you?" 
 
 Corrie thanked him shyly, and begged they might 
 stay where they were. " You must be very busy, Mr. 
 
 101
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Biggamore. Besides, I shall trouble you only a 
 moment." 
 
 Mr. Biggamore beamed rotundly. " Trouble ? No 
 trouble at all, I assure you. Please be seated. 
 Greatest pleasure in the world." 
 
 He bowed her to a chair placed directly in the center 
 of the garden, a wide-armed, comfortable, deep- 
 backed, rustic garden seat set evidently where Mr. 
 Biggamore could pore upon his cheerful little domain. 
 For it was a queer, quaint little garden, too, in keep 
 ing with everything else. On all sides the fenced 
 area of backyard held a bewildering oasis of its 
 own, a massed square of color filled with flowering 
 bulbs tulips, snowdrops, hyacinths, and daffodils 
 blooming exotically in the heart of the city's desert 
 of ugly brick and stone. From a further corner a 
 wistaria vine sprang upward to a high lattice car 
 ried above the fence, and with this screen as a back 
 ground and the amazing flame of color underfoot, one 
 almost forgot the crowding houses so near at hand, 
 the city's crowded life, and, for the moment, dreamt 
 it to be the quiet of a far-away, country nook. 
 
 " Pleasure, I assure you ! Just pottering ; that 's 
 all. Miss er, Miss Miss Delevan, you said, 
 was n't it?" 
 
 Corrie hadn't said at all, as she laughingly an 
 swered. " I 'm Miss Robinson, however, Mr. Bigga 
 more Miss Corrie Robinson," she added, and 
 at her frank amusement Mr. Biggamore, too, had to 
 laugh, or, rather, he exploded into merriment, his 
 chubby form shaking gleefully. " Well oh, yes ! 
 
 102
 
 MR. BIGGAMORE AND HIS GARDEN 
 
 Miss Robinson Robinson, that 's it. Not Delevan 
 in the least. Merely tried Delevan as a graceful way 
 of finding out." He peeped again over his spectacles 
 and beamed at her, a queer, benevolent little person, 
 so cheery and genial and full of evident kindliness 
 that Corrie felt assured she could trust herself to him. 
 " Well now, my young lady," he inquired, curling his 
 forelock reflectively, " how can I have the honor of 
 serving you? " 
 
 Corrie came down to the moment with a start. 
 How ? Why, she hardly knew. Mr. Biggamore, hav 
 ing twirled his wisp of forelock a while, took off 
 his spectacles and carefully wiped them with a large, 
 flowered silk handkerchief, which he extracted with a 
 flourish from his coat-tails. Afterward he adjusted 
 the glasses on the endmost tip of his nose, and, having 
 laid hold of his forelock again, once more beamed at 
 her encouragingly, nodding his head the while and 
 teetering to and fro with his other hand behind him. 
 
 "Why," exclaimed Corrie, diffidently, "I don't 
 just know. In the beginning " 
 
 "In the beginning? Excellent!" observed Mr. 
 Biggamore, promptly. " No place like the beginning 
 to begin. Let 's begin there. In the beginning " 
 
 " In the beginning, then, Mr. Biggamore," an 
 swered Corrie, smilingly taking her cue, " I 'm look 
 ing for some people who once lived here. I mean in 
 this, neighborhood," she added cautiously, resolved 
 not to commit herself until she learned just what he 
 knew of Mrs. Pinchin. A misstep might cost much 
 now; for what would Mrs. Pinchin do were she to 
 
 103
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 learn that Corrie, indeed, was snooping this 
 snooping she disliked so much. " And if you will tell 
 me who owns this house," she went on after the mo 
 ment's thought, " it would be a great help to me. I 
 think it 's the one I 'm looking for." 
 
 " Who owns it? " Mr. Biggamore smiled be 
 nignly. " Easiest thing in the world to tell you, my 
 young lady. 7 own it, house, grounds, garden, 
 everything! No. 57 Hedge Street; P. Biggamore, 
 owner." 
 
 Corrie lacked a clear idea whether he was poking 
 fun at her or not. But encouraged by his twinkling 
 eyes and his general aspect of chubby cheerfulness, 
 she went on easily. " Oh, yes and I think you 
 bought it from a Mrs. Pinchin, did n't you ? " she 
 suggested, in an off-hand tone, as if carelessly aware 
 of the fact. " That was the person's name, if I am 
 right?" 
 
 Mr. Biggamore shook his head. " Pinchin ? Pin- 
 chin? " he repeated, slowly twisting his forelock until 
 it stood out from his head like a pigtail. " Don't 
 seem to recall the name, somehow. But I 've no head 
 for names, anyway. No don't seem to remember 
 it." 
 
 Corrie looked around the garden, affecting to gaze 
 at the massed display of color with a detached and 
 purely casual interest. " Are n't your flowers beau 
 tiful ! But Mrs. Pinchin perhaps she lived here 
 before you, Mr. Biggamore. Will you tell me how 
 long you 've had the house ? " 
 
 He looked up at the sky thoughtfully. " Let me 
 104
 
 MR. BIGGAMORE AND HIS GARDEN 
 
 see how long ? Hm-m-mh ! I '11 have to fig 
 ure. No head for names, but pretty good at arith 
 metic." Mr. Biggamore took a fresh clutch at his 
 forelock and calculated mentally. "Been here? 
 why, fourteen years, two months, and a few days 
 five or six, I should say. Is that close enough? " 
 
 An exclamation sprang to Corrie's lips, but she 
 managed to repress it. Fourteen years? It had 
 been just that long ago when Mrs. Pin chin made her 
 night's flitting from the house. " Ah, yes ; so I 
 thought," she assented, still with the same studious 
 unconcern. " The lady I was looking for moved from 
 here about that time. But then, of course," she 
 added, smiling politely, " if you don't remember her, 
 there 's no need of my bothering you about it." 
 Smiling again, she made a movement as if to rise in 
 departure, though she had no intention, yet, of giv 
 ing up so easily. She was too certain she had found 
 the house, for one reason. 
 
 Mr. Biggamore dropped his hand long enough 
 from his stray lock to wring his nose dubiously. 
 " Must be a mistake somewhere," he said musingly. 
 " This house belonged to an estate, you see. Pin- 
 chin ? Pinchin ? " he echoed to himself, and again 
 shook his head. " Still don't seem to recall that 
 name," he repeated, looking a little troubled. " Be 
 gins to sound a little familiar, too, now that I think 
 it over. However, I 'm sure the house never belonged 
 to your friend. Must be some other house like this. 
 The estate built three or four just alike." 
 
 Corrie arose to her feet, a smile on her face, but 
 105
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 in her heart nothing akin either to a smile or any 
 other trait of cheerfulness. " I 'm very grateful to 
 you for your kindness, Mr. Biggamore," she said 
 pleasantly, but somehow, despite her trying, her 
 lip trembled a little ; " thank you for giving me so 
 much of your time." 
 
 He peered at her quickly. " But perhaps there 's 
 some way I could aid you? " he suggested cour 
 teously ; " do I understand you are sure about the 
 house, or," he inquired hesitatingly, " or why 
 is it just the description you have? If that's the 
 case, I know this neighborhood from a to z, my 
 young lady, and besides," he added brightly, 
 and grinned ; " why hm m mh ! why, we make 
 houses right here on the premises yes, we do ! " and 
 with a laugh explained himself. " My young nephew 
 is an architect a pretty good one, too, though 
 I say it myself that perhaps should n't. Oh, yes ! 
 lots of houses upstairs. All drawn out on paper. 
 Now if you '11 tell me what your house looks like? " 
 
 Corrie told him, making a wry little mouth over 
 the parrot-like repetition, the glibly-repeated de 
 tail of green blinds, white pillars, fan light, and 
 spindle railing. And at the description Mr. Bigga 
 more cocked up his ear alertly, and resumed his tug 
 ging at his forelock. 
 
 " Why ! sure enough ; that 's this very house of 
 mine. You 've got it down to a dot ! " he cried, nod 
 ding with interest. " And by the same token, too," 
 he added energetically, " it fits to a dot all the other 
 houses I spoke about the ones built by that estate, 
 
 106
 
 MR. BIGGAMORE AND HIS GARDEN 
 
 I mean. Why, there 's one right around the corner 
 Right there ! " he cried and pointed with a wave of 
 his hand to the house behind them. 
 
 But the instant the words left him he glanced sud 
 denly at Corrie, with a look of nervously awakened in 
 terest that seemed almost pointed. " Pinchin ? Pin- 
 chin? " he echoed once more, and then let his eyes 
 travel slowly toward the house he had pointed out; 
 " are you sure the name was Pinchin ? " 
 
 Quite sure; Corrie repeated it, and even went to 
 the trouble of slowly spelling it. " It 's rather im 
 portant, you see, Mr. Biggamore, that I find out 
 about her. Otherwise I would n't have troubled you. 
 She and my family were acquainted." 
 
 Mr. Biggamore appeared not to be listening to her. 
 " No," he said dully, as if musing aloud ; " I don't 
 think she lived in that house, either. I think not; 
 but it might be worth trying to find out." 
 
 Corrie looked up over the tangle of wistaria toward 
 the windowed rear wall behind them. " Who lives 
 there now? " she asked incuriously, and really without 
 interest now, since she had about made up her mind 
 nothing was to be learned by questioning him any 
 more. Corrie was little prepared for the consequence 
 of that idle question, idly asked. 
 
 " In that house, ma'am ! Hmph! " Mr. Bigga 
 more shot a vehement look at her, and a still more 
 vehement look at the house. Both hands were thrust 
 behind him, and he angrily tossed his coat-tails. " A 
 perfect stranger, ma'am. ... A perfect stranger! 
 Do I make myself clear to you?" Staring at her 
 
 107
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 fixedly, he wrinkled up his brow into a scowl, dragged 
 out his handkerchief, and wrung an indignant trum 
 pet blast from his nose. " An entire stranger to me, 
 ma'am ! " he repeated indignantly. 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon ! " exclaimed Corrie, and 
 Mr. Biggamore looked at her uncomfortably. 
 
 " No fault of yours, my dear young lady. Man 's 
 a perfect stranger, I assure you. No call for an 
 apology not in the least ! " 
 
 Still snorting under his breath, Mr. Biggamore 
 led the astonished girl back through the French win 
 dows, the dining room, and the hall, and gravely 
 bowed her out. It was a curious scene, a queer end 
 ing to so much geniality and quaint, old-mannered 
 kindness ; and a regretful ending, too. But as Cor 
 rie looked back from the sidewalk, Mr. Biggamore 
 suddenly recovered his amiability, and bobbed to her 
 energetically. " If you can't find your house," he 
 chirped pleasantly, " come back and let me know. 
 Maybe I may recall where I 've heard the name 
 Pinchin? was n't that it? " 
 
 Corrie thanked him smilingly, and then the door 
 closed behind her. 
 
 Which way now? Must it be back to Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's, once more bearing the flag of defeat? Dully 
 hopeless, she walked away from the scene of disap 
 pointment and failure, and the sting of it would have 
 been unbearable, had she not always felt that hope 
 lessness. No, she would never find out never 
 lay her hand on any hint of her identity ! It seemed 
 not even worth the while to walk around the corner 
 
 108
 
 MR. BIGGAMORE AND HIS GARDEN 
 
 not worth the waste of time to look at that other 
 house, the one behind Mr. Biggamore's. The house 
 there meant only another disappointment and 
 why add another pang? But the uncertainty! 
 
 Quickening her steps, the girl turned the corner 
 and entered the street beyond. 
 
 It was another quiet byway, just such a street as 
 the one she just had quit. It, too, seemed familiar 
 curiously enough, even more familiar. Hurriedly 
 she crossed over to the opposite curb and looked up 
 at the lamp post. " Bend Street,'* she read, and re 
 peated it : " Bend Street Bend Bend ! " Then 
 like a searching flash of light, the name touched back 
 upon some cell of recollection, and flooded every 
 nook and cranny of her mind. Bend Street! Corrie 
 knew that name ! It returned to her, shouting in the 
 dimmed recesses of her brain, its remembrance cried 
 up to her from the forgotten depths of the past. 
 Swiftly, she walked along. Bend Street! even 
 the number now No. 66 Bend Street the right 
 house on the right side of the way! No mistake 
 now ! There it was green blinds, pillars, fan light, 
 spindle railing and all all as she had expected to 
 find them. She halted, staring up at it agape, and 
 was just ready to march up and ring its bell, when, 
 all at once, a sharp cry escaped her, and she shrank 
 back in blank dismay. 
 
 For coming down the steps of No. 66 Bend Street 
 was a woman, her stick thwacking loudly on the pave 
 ment, and the woman was Mrs. Pinchin herself! 
 
 109
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Showing how any kind of conscience, even though pure, may 
 make cowards of the best of us. Corrie's interrupted fliglit. 
 
 Her return to Mr. Biggamore's and the uncomfortable 
 result of it. The mystery of the back-door neighbor. 
 Mr. Biggamore's sister and her suspicions against her caller. 
 
 The question about the boy with the bread and jam. 
 Mrs. Pinchin's identity and the rebuff courteous. Corrie's 
 hurt dismay. Enter Philip Geikie, astonished. 
 
 TT^LIGHT was Corrie's first impulse. She saw that 
 - massive figure limping down the steps, the eyes 
 staring straight ahead, and the jaw and heavy face 
 set rigidly. Whether Mrs. Pinchin had seen her re 
 mained a question ; but when the girl turned the 
 corner with a flying look backward, Mrs. Pinchin had 
 gone the other way, and with the best speed possible, 
 her stick sounding smartly on the pavement, was 
 making off into the distance. Whither she was bound 
 was also a question, though Corrie had no thought of 
 that now, but rather, why Mrs. Pinchin had not in 
 stantly pursued her. Had she escaped after all? 
 The thing to do now was to get home, and to get 
 home as quickly as possible. So, after another glance 
 at the retreating figure, Corrie set out on the way as 
 fast as her feet could carry her. 
 
 But what did it mean? What brought Mrs. Pin- 
 chin back to the scene of former days? Who lived 
 in that house now, and why had she gone there ? Still 
 
 110
 
 THE REBUFF COURTEOUS 
 
 dazed, dismayed, overwrought by the mystery, Cor- 
 rie hazarded guess after guess, not one of which, 
 when momentarily considered, seemed to be in the 
 least way plausible. But that Mrs. Pinchin's early 
 morning activity bore a vital part in the growing 
 mystery, Corrie felt certain beyond the smallest 
 shadow of a doubt. And there were these other 
 doings, too, the conflict with Maria, Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's departure in the carriage, and the bundle she 
 took with her. What, for instance, was in the bundle, 
 and why had Mrs. Pinchin so burdened herself when 
 there was Corrie who was always called on to fetch 
 and carry? She shook her head, her wits a hopeless 
 tangle. 
 
 But as Corrie hurried back toward Eighth Street 
 and the Elevated, a sudden thought struck her. Why 
 wait to clear up the tangle ? Why delay ? For when 
 would she get another chance as good? Mrs. Pinchin 
 was not one to overlook another's misdeeds ; much 
 less would she overlook so outrageous a fault as dis 
 obedience to her orders ; and had not Corrie wilfully 
 disobeyed in slipping out of the house? Or what, too, 
 if Mrs. Pinchin had seen Corrie prowling the streets 
 in her wake? If she had, many days might pass 
 before Corrie could prowl again many days before 
 a chance might come to find who lived in that house. 
 No if anything were to be done, it must be done 
 now; nothing was to be gained by delay. Armed 
 with her resolution, she turned on her heel, and 
 swiftly retraced her steps to Bend Street. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin had disappeared ; the street lay quiet 
 111
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 and solitary. Beyond, the missing mansion raised 
 its front, now found and more fully fledged than 
 ever in its bewildering garb of mystery. From the 
 corner she could see it clearly, its closed door blankly 
 secretive, its windows with their shades closely 
 drawn, its discreet and impressive quiet, as if within 
 skulked the untold and the unknown. Or so Corrie 
 thought, after a momentary look ; and rounding the 
 corner again, she returned to Mr. Biggamore's. He 
 must tell her who lived in that house, for she dared 
 not ask at the house itself, and that he knew she was 
 certain. 
 
 Her emotions, when she drew near Mr. Bigga 
 more's, were even more confused than before. Won 
 der, dismay, even a little shadowy sense of fear 
 oppressed her; for to what troubles, even perils, 
 would the next move commit her ? She knew definitely, 
 though with no clear grasp of the facts, that the 
 threads of this tangled skein stretched all about her 
 from Mrs. Pinchin herself, back through the 
 strange mansion in the adjoining street, and from 
 there further onward, here to this queer little gentle 
 man mured in his quaint retreat. But nothing ven 
 tured, nothing won ! Summoning all her courage, she 
 laid her hand to the bell hanger and rang vigorously. 
 
 The door opened almost instantly, the servant 
 holding it back to let out a young girl of about Cor- 
 rie's own age. " And say I '11 be back later, won't 
 you," she was saying to the servant. " You can tell 
 Higgs when he comes to drive to my aunt's." " Yes, 
 Miss Virgie," answered the elderly servant ; and the 
 
 112
 
 THE REBUFF COURTEOUS 
 
 girl seeing Corrie coming up the steps, glanced at 
 her, and smiling pleasantly, went on her way down 
 the street. 
 
 A very pretty girl, thought Corrie, and trim and 
 smart in her quiet street dress. Very attractive, too, 
 with her frank smile. Corrie looked back from her to 
 the servant. " Will you ask Mr. Biggamore whether 
 I may see him again? " she inquired; and this time, 
 as if assured the early morning visitor had no ul 
 terior designs on the house, the servant showed her 
 courteously into the drawing-room. There she found 
 a seat on an old-rose-colored damask sofa under the 
 portrait of a youthful Mr. Biggamore, and presently 
 he appeared in person. 
 
 To say that Mr. Biggamore was astonished but 
 indefinitely expresses it. " Why, my dear young 
 lady ! " he ej aculated. " Not back again so soon ! " he 
 piped, and could hardly restrain his curiosity. 
 " Well ! well ! and what is it now? " 
 
 Corrie looked at him perplexedly, hardly knowing 
 how to go at it. It was clear to her, after once hav 
 ing seen his emotion over the matter, that he knew per 
 fectly who lived in the house behind. And what would 
 happen when she deliberately plied him with the ques 
 tion. " Mr. Biggamore," she said hesitantly, " I 
 have found the house, and this time there can be no 
 mistake. It is the one you pointed out to me ; your 
 neighbor, just back of us!" 
 
 Instantly the inquiry in his face transformed into 
 open astonishment. " That house ! " he exclaimed, 
 as if he were unable to believe he had heard her 
 8 113
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 aright. "You say that is the one? Hm-m-mh!" 
 Mr. Biggamore pursed up his lips and frowned 
 thoughtfully. " How long ago did this Mrs. this 
 Mrs. Ah, yes ! thank you ! When did this Mrs. 
 Pinchin live there? " 
 
 She reminded him it had been fourteen years 
 before. " There can be no mistake, I assure 
 you," she added convincingly. " I am quite certain 
 about it." 
 
 Mr. Biggamore pressed his lips together again, 
 and with a hand on each of his knees, leaned forward 
 intently. His manner now had lost all its first genial, 
 eager kindliness ; he had become suddenly alert and 
 cautious, careful, shrewd almost hard. " One 
 thing or the other, my dear young lady," he said con 
 cisely, after deliberation ; " you are either very sadly 
 in error, or you know something which I, too, would 
 like to know." He edged forward in his chair, eye 
 ing her closely. " Tell me," he demanded abruptly, 
 " who is this Mrs. Pinchot Pinchot? no, that is n't 
 it I mean, who 's this Mrs. Pinchin ? and what 
 about her? " 
 
 Corrie, thoroughly alarmed and on guard now at 
 the quick change in his manner, felt her heart flutter 
 nervously. " Why why, who is Mrs. Pinchin, you 
 ask ? " she stammered, echoing his words in the effort 
 to gain time enough to compose herself. " Why, 
 Mrs. Pinchin is she 's " 
 
 She came to an awkward pause. Yes ! who, indeed, 
 was Mrs. Pinchin? For Corrie didn't know, now 
 that she came to think of it. And not knowing, how 
 
 114
 
 THE REBUFF COURTEOUS 
 
 could she explain herself to her inquisitor, now grown 
 alert, his eyes fixed on her in significant doubt? 
 
 " My dear young lady," protested Mr. Bigga- 
 more, after a painful interval, " it strikes me, if I 
 may say so, that this is a rather queer proceeding." 
 He moved nervously in his seat again, and pursed 
 out his lips. " You come here to my home, an utter 
 stranger to me, and you ask me to tell you what I 
 know about the man who lives in the house behind us." 
 He cleared his throat noisily at this, and peered at 
 her. " Now while I dislike to offend you by an un 
 just suspicion, my young lady, you must admit the 
 circumstances to be little in your favor. Particularly 
 so," he added very gently and politely, " when your 
 only explanation is that you are hunting for a woman 
 you do not seem to know or so it looks. Now will you 
 tell me what it really is you 're trying to find out? " 
 
 Corrie caught at her breath; it was as he said. 
 Here she was, a young woman, very young indeed, a 
 girl hardly more than a child, blindly struggling 
 with vital matters far beyond her grasp. " But oh, 
 
 oh, why now " stammered Corrie, confusedly, and 
 
 then bit her lip. " Mr. Biggamore," she said frankly, 
 and so far upset that she made no effort to hide her 
 embarrassment and trouble, " I can't tell you who 
 Mrs. Pinchin is because why, because I don't 
 know. I never did know," she added baldly as she 
 gazed at him, her eyes deep with appeal ; " and now 
 I 'm really trying to find out. But she lived in that 
 house, Mr. Biggamore; I know that because I lived 
 there with her ! " 
 
 115
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 In the pause following this astonishing admission, 
 a pause more than filled, on one hand, by the girl's 
 growing excitement, on the other hand, by Mr. Big- 
 gamore's open-mouthed wonder, a footfall sounded on 
 the stair. It came down the flight with a stately 
 slowness, halted a moment at the doorway, and then a 
 softly modulated voice called out quietly : " Philip, 
 are you here ? " 
 
 Mr. Biggamore sprang to his feet. " A moment, 
 if you please," he murmured apologetically; and as 
 he pushed aside the hangings at the door, Corrie 
 saw in the hallway a tall, slenderly built woman, white 
 haired and grave, whose face was sweet with its air 
 of placid repose. " A young lady to see me," Corrie 
 heard Mr. Biggamore hurriedly explain, with a small 
 confusion ; " I want you to come in and speak to 
 her." 
 
 " A young lady ? Why, yes indeed, Philip," said 
 the quiet voice pleasantly, and Corrie rose to her 
 feet. 
 
 " This is Miss er, why Miss " began Mr. 
 Biggamore and then halted in confusion. " Bless 
 me, if I haven't gone and forgotten the name 
 again ! " 
 
 " I 'm Miss Robinson," Corrie murmured shyly, 
 herself a little confused, and, beside that, still filled 
 with her emotion of the moment before. Though Mr. 
 Biggamore's surprising forgetfulness of names had 
 broken off the introduction, she guessed the elderly 
 woman's relation to the little man in a certain resem 
 blance that was unmistakable. " I 'm afraid I must 
 
 116
 
 THE REBUFF COURTEOUS 
 
 have been troubling your brother a great deal," 
 she ventured. " I hope I have n't kept him from 
 you." 
 
 " Nonsense ! not troubling me in the least ! " ex 
 claimed Mr. Biggamore, but whether sincerely or not 
 was a question; that is, if one considered how he 
 tugged at his forelock and trod from one foot to the 
 other. " Delighted, I *m sure. Highly interested, 
 besides ! " 
 
 The white-haired woman looked around inquiringly. 
 " Interested ? why, that 's very good, I am sure. 
 My brother is usually so engrossed in his flowers, 
 Miss Robinson, that it is hard to get him away from 
 them. What is it about, may I know? " she asked, 
 smiling pleasantly. Drawing the folds of her soft, 
 clinging, gray house dress about her, she sat down 
 beside Corrie on the sofa, and bent toward her en 
 couragingly, as if to overcome what was naturally a 
 young girl's shyness. 
 
 Corrie's eyes dropped uncomfortably. So far from 
 setting her at her ease, the gentle lady at her side had 
 only succeeded in forcing on her an added knowledge 
 of how awkward the situation had become. For, if it 
 had seemed difficult to explain herself to Mr. Bigga 
 more, how could she blurt it out now to this quiet, 
 self-repressed, grave, gray-haired woman beside her? 
 But before the uncomfortable pause had become too 
 significant, Mr. Biggamore spoke. 
 
 " My dear Laura," said he, peering over his spec 
 tacles at his sister, " our young friend here has come 
 to me with a question that seems to be a very earnest 
 
 117
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 matter to her. I have n't been able to answer it, 
 but perhaps you can. The fact is, do you know a 
 Mrs. Pinchin? " He turned inquiringly to Corrie. 
 "That is the name, as I recall it? Thank you! 
 Laura, have you ever heard of this Mrs. Pinchin? " 
 
 " Pmchm? " Mr. Biggamore's sister uttered the 
 name with just the faintest note of recognition. 
 " Pinchin ? where have I heard it now ? Why ! 
 just a moment Pinchin? Pinchin?" Then her 
 eyes lighted. " Oh, yes ! Mrs. Pinchin ; why, of 
 course! I remember the name." 
 
 Corrie impulsively bent toward her. " There! I 
 was sure of it ! " she cried, her face lighted with ani 
 mation. " Now won't you let me tell you what I 
 want to know. It 's this ! " she exclaimed, growing 
 still more eager. " Mrs. Pinchin lived in this house 
 behind us. Then there was a boy who lived here 
 here in your house a boy with brown hair 
 and a snub nose. Why ! " exclaimed Corrie, in grow 
 ing excitement, " why ! it must have been your son ! 
 It must have been, Mr. Biggamore ! " 
 
 At the excited words and aware of the girl's grow 
 ing agitation, Mr. Biggamore and his sister looked 
 at each other blankly. " My son ! my boy ! " ex 
 claimed Mr. Biggamore, in obvious stupefaction ; " I 
 have no son. What are you saying? I have no boy; 
 never had any. Nor chick nor child of any kind ! " 
 
 His sister was the first to gain composure. " One 
 moment, Philip," she begged the astounded Mr. Big 
 gamore ; " I believe I know whom Miss Robinson has 
 in mind. But before this goes any further, I should 
 
 118
 
 THE REBUFF COURTEOUS 
 
 like to be enlightened. What is this all about? " 
 With quiet dignity she bent her eyes on Corrie. 
 " This boy you speak about what do you wish to 
 know about him? And why do you wish to know? " 
 
 Corrie's voice trembled uncertainly when she an 
 swered. " He knew something I wish to learn. I 
 talked to him through the fence back there. I was 
 living in that house." 
 
 For a brief moment Mr. Biggamore and his sister 
 exchanged another glance. " Ah ! And you say Mrs. 
 Pinchin lived there, too?" the elderly woman per 
 sisted; and when Corrie bent her head in silent as 
 sent, Mr. Biggamore's sister pressed her lips tightly 
 together, her manner even graver than before. 
 " Philip, Miss Robinson seems very confident. What 
 do you think of it ? " 
 
 " Think of it ! " exploded Mr. Biggamore, who dur 
 ing the moment had been teetering to and fro, his 
 hands thrust behind him furiously tossing his coat- 
 tails. " Think of it ! I don't know what to think at 
 all. In the first place, who in the world is this Mrs. 
 Pinchin? You seem to know her, Laura! Who is 
 she, I say? " 
 
 There was a pointed meaning in her tone when she 
 spoke. " If you '11 try to think, Philip, you will re 
 call her, too." 
 
 " Think? how can I think? " Mr. Biggamore pro 
 tested hotly. " Never heard of her in my life ! 
 Come, stop this. Who is she? " 
 
 " The boy's new acquaintance," she answered, and 
 in the crisp directness of her words, there was every 
 
 119
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 quality of dramatic intensity. " It is she, without a 
 doubt. But what her motive is, who can say? " 
 
 Mr. Biggamore plumped down into the nearest 
 chair, and leaning toward his sister, opened his mouth 
 and eyes until they had made of him the living per 
 sonation of an exclamation point. " Her! " he cried, 
 expressively, if inelegantly. " Her ! why ! oh, 
 well I never! " 
 
 Poor Corrie ! Filled with a new alarm, she felt her 
 heart beat thickly in her breast. Who were these 
 persons on whom she had stumbled so blindly, and 
 why their wonder at the possible, if not probable, 
 identity of Mrs. Pinchin? That they knew her now, 
 or, at least, knew something about some Mrs. Pinchin, 
 was clearly obvious painfully so, in fact. But out 
 of the hopeless tangle, she could draw nothing defi 
 nite nothing, unless it were an added, creeping 
 trepidation. 
 
 " What is it you wish to know from my boy ? " 
 inquired Mr. Biggamore's sister, quietly, but with a 
 disturbing reserve in her tone and manner. 
 
 Corrie moistened her dry lips. " It was n't really 
 the boy," she answered, choosing her words slowly 
 with the knowledge that caution was required now. 
 " It was his father. The boy said his father knew 
 something, and now I am trying to find it out. If I 
 could see his father ! May I see him ? He would tell 
 me, I think. Can't you or Mr. Biggamore take me 
 to him?" 
 
 Very quietly and simply the grave-faced woman 
 answered the girl's plea. She folded her hands in her 
 
 120
 
 THE REBUFF COURTEOUS 
 
 lap and a shadow drew across her face; her lips 
 trembled momentarily with some hidden pain. " He 
 was my boy's father, Miss Robinson. He died many 
 years ago, just after we moved into this house." 
 
 The silence grew. Mr. Biggamore sat staring at 
 the carpet; and outside in the hall the tall clock 
 ticked with a heavy, measured tread a slow, thick, 
 deliberate tick ! tock ! tick ! tock ! the footfalls 
 of passing time. Beside the girl Mr. Biggamore's 
 sister leaned back with a far-away thoughtfulness in 
 her eyes, gazing pensively through the half-drawn 
 curtains of the window ; and even Corrie knew from 
 the look how unforgotten and painful the sorrow 
 must be whose wraith she had so ruthlessly, though 
 innocently, dragged up out of the past. 
 
 " Oh! " she whispered contritely, and at the mur 
 mur the two others stirred slowly. 
 
 " Laura," said Mr. Biggamore, slowly deliberate, 
 but with all the former significance in his tone, 
 " Laura, this is a strange affair. Very, very strange, 
 I should say. Can this young lady be right? Some 
 how, I can't quite convince myself, but I think we 
 ought to make sure about that woman ever living 
 there. Don't you think so, too ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered absently ; " I think we ought 
 to make sure." 
 
 He paced across the room and back again. " Will 
 you describe this Mrs. Pinchin? " he asked; and once 
 more Corrie heard his first quiet tone of encourage 
 ment ; " I should like to hear what she looks like." 
 
 Corrie described her. Detail by detail, as closely 
 121
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 as she could, she drew the figure of Mrs. Pinchin: 
 Mrs. Pinchin's massive form, her dark, leathery face, 
 its square jaw and drooping mouth; Mrs. Pinchin's 
 thick-lidded, peering eyes, deep and langourously 
 dull ; her limp, her stick, her deliberate gait Mrs. 
 Pinchin to the life. None could have mistaken the 
 likeness ; the stalwart, heavy, square-framed, ponder 
 ous, deliberate woman, her profound, suspicious man 
 ner, her grim and resolute way. None could have mis 
 taken it for any other woman had the listener ever laid 
 eyes on Mrs. Pinchin. The two hearkening intently, 
 looked at each other and blankly shook their heads. 
 
 " Phil," said Mr. Biggamore's sister, " this is 
 queer. That woman never lived in the house behind 
 us, I am very sure ; or not while we have been living 
 here. But the description is a very close description 
 of Phil's Mrs. Pinchin, there can be no mistake of 
 that. But that she lived there! Incredible! or 
 Mr. Biggamore's sister caught her breath, 
 and stopped. " Or " 
 
 The brother, too, seemed to share her thought, 
 whatever it may have been the apparent suspicion 
 that had so abruptly silenced the gray-haired woman. 
 But Phil's Mrs. Pinchin! Who was she? It was on 
 the end of Corrie's tongue to ask impulsively, when 
 once again Mr. Biggamore cut in. " Now look 
 here ! " he exclaimed, or, rather, once more exploded ; 
 " you lived in that house and you say she lived in 
 that house ? Are you dead certain ? " 
 
 Corrie nodded rather drearily, wondering in dis 
 may what kind of a hornet's nest she had really 
 
 122
 
 THE REBUFF COURTEOUS 
 
 stirred up around her. Mr. Biggamore got up and 
 stood in front of her. " Very well then ! And now, 
 my dear young girl, will you please tell me why you 
 are sure? Give me one good reason just one. I '11 
 own up it 's a pretty important matter to me to find 
 out. Now, why are you so sure? " 
 
 " Because," answered Corrie, raising her face ; 
 " because I lived there with her. Because I know the 
 house and remember it. I remember the number, 
 too. No, I 'm sure, Mr. Biggamore, and besides 
 why, not half an hour ago I saw Mrs. Pinchin her 
 self come out of that very house ! " 
 
 If Corrie had tried deliberately to arrange and 
 stage a dramatic climax, it could have possessed no 
 greater emotion, nor been any more intense than the 
 result of this unpremeditated shot. Mrs. Pinchin seen 
 coming out of that house? The words appeared to 
 fall on the two like a bolt out of a clear sky. Mr. Big 
 gamore gasped, and the sister, for a moment forget 
 ting her calm and dignified reserve, suffered an ex 
 clamation to escape her. 
 
 " Then, Philip," said Mr. Biggamore's sister, " this 
 explains that woman's strange interest in the boy ; 
 or rather, it gives us an inkling. But what is she 
 trying to do? What is her motive?" 
 
 With the words still on her lips, she turned in 
 stantly to Corrie, a sudden, pointed suspicion in her 
 manner. " Miss Robinson, there is a Mrs. Pinchin 
 living in West Seventy-fifth Street near the Park. 
 Do you happen to know her ? " 
 
 In West Seventy-fifth Street ! It was Corrie's own 
 123
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin, of course! There was no doubt of 
 that! But in her embarrassment at being asked so 
 pointedly and suspiciously, Corrie forgot astonishment 
 that they had guessed who it was. " Yes, I know her ; 
 she is the one," she answered dully, unaware, too, of 
 what the admission must have signified to them. 
 
 Again the gray-haired woman caught her breath. 
 " You know her ? And you say she is the one you are 
 hunting? Miss Robinson, what is your relation to 
 this Mrs. Pinchin, may I inquire? " 
 
 Corrie answered, feeling it was no use to hold back 
 the truth ; they could find out anyway, if they chose. 
 " I live with her I am her companion ! " 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! " The murmured comment was filled 
 with every significance of what Mr. Biggamore's sister 
 had decided this young woman to be; but Corrie 
 blundered on, her mind in no condition to take it in. 
 She even overlooked the fact that the other had risen 
 and was now standing with folded hands, manifestly 
 no longer willing to prolong the uncomfortable in 
 terview. " Yes," said Corrie, " I 've lived with her 
 always. I lived in the house behind you, too. Won't 
 you tell me who lives there now? " 
 
 It was the covert shake of Mr. Biggamore's head 
 that awoke the girl to a full sense of her position 
 a furtive signal wigwagging caution. But Mr. Big 
 gamore's sister required no warning. 
 
 " Miss Robinson," she said courteously, yet with 
 an icy decisiveness that left Corrie no longer in ig 
 norance, " you will pardon me, but let me recall to 
 you the fact that Mrs. Pinchin is already supplied 
 
 124
 
 THE REBUFF COURTEOUS 
 
 with the information you come for. Philip, will you 
 open the door for Miss Robinson? " 
 
 " Why oh ! " That was all. There was nothing 
 to say, though Corrie made a stammering effort to 
 explain herself. But as she started toward the door, 
 confused and wounded, flushing with the shame of 
 her false position, a key was thrust into the lock, the 
 door opened, and a voice cried out cheerfully, " Oh, 
 mother! Hello, uncle! Anyone at home?" 
 
 Corrie stood rooted to the carpet. A young man 
 appeared at the door, and when his eye fell on Corrie 
 he flashed at her a moment's dumbfounded look of 
 wonder, and then burst into a peal of laughter. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Robinson ! Oh, what a j oke ! " he cried 
 cordially, and not in the least embarrassed. " So 
 the ogres have really got you? " 
 
 It was Phil Geikie, of course young Mr. Geikie 
 who had craftily directed Corrie to his own home in 
 her search for the missing mansion. Plainly speak 
 ing, he had done so for several reasons ; the chief 
 one of which was that he might return and find her 
 there; another, that he wished to hear from his 
 mother just what she thought of this curious Mrs. 
 Pinchin's highly interesting paid companion. But 
 Corrie, too hurt to realize and knowing only what it 
 had cost her, hung her head and tried to get by him 
 to the door. 
 
 " Oh ! " he exclaimed, and then he stared at his 
 mother and uncle. One look was enough. He turned 
 to Corrie in dismay. " Why, what has happened? " 
 
 125
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 In which our young hero is led to regret his unusual method of 
 presenting Corrie to his family. His effort to pour oil on 
 troubled waters. Corrie 's departure under a cloud, and the 
 young man's ready sympathy. Stanwood Geikie, the 
 family's evil genius, and the tale of how money may be cast 
 away with good effect. The Tollabees placed; but no ac 
 counting for Mrs. Pinchin. Stanwood Geikie's deserted 
 wife. Corrie tells part of her story. One advantage from 
 looking dowdy. 
 
 "IXTHY ! " exclaimed Phil Geikie, confusedly, " is 
 there anything wrong? " 
 A great deal appeared to be wrong. His mother, 
 her head thrown back proudly, stood looking at him 
 in haughty disapproval as she realized that this 
 young woman and her son seemed to know each other 
 rather well ; and his uncle, energetically twitching his 
 stray wisp of hair, uncomfortably averted his eyes. 
 Corrie, even more uncomfortable than the others, 
 gazed at Phil as if yet unable to grasp the explana 
 tion of his sudden appearance on the scene; for his 
 entrance, coming as it did as a climax to her other 
 bewilderments, served to put a finishing touch on the 
 chaos in her mind. Forgetting it was the boy himself 
 who had playfully sent her to his own home, she 
 thought only of the consequences. And now that he 
 had found her there, what was to happen ? Was Mrs. 
 Pinchin to learn through this channel also some 
 
 126
 
 OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS 
 
 further history of how her companion had occupied 
 this rather extraordinary morning? 
 
 "You know Miss Robinson, I see?" said Mrs. 
 Geikie, slowly, and with an inflection that gave to the 
 question a pointed force. 
 
 " Know her ? Why, of course I do ! " answered 
 Phil, heartily. " Don't you remember my telling you 
 how I ' ve talked to her ? It was she, mother, whom I 
 met at Mrs. Pinchin's." 
 
 Mrs. Geikie still regarded him with an unchanged 
 expression. " Precisely ! You talked to the people in 
 that house, though you could n't realize why they 
 took such an interest in your affairs." Phil caught 
 her note of resentment and stirred uneasily. 
 
 " Could n't realize? Mother, I don't think I quite 
 understand you." 
 
 Mrs. Geikie faintly smiled. " I mean this, Phil : 
 Miss Robinson came here this morning to ask 
 whether we knew of the Mrs. Pinchin, whom, I now 
 find, she is living with. Rather singular, was n't it? 
 Naturally we could tell her nothing she does not al 
 ready know; though I am afraid Miss Robinson is 
 not satisfied. In fact, I have had to tell her there 
 are personal reasons why we should n't answer her 
 many questions. I trust you have been as cautious." 
 
 " Mother ! " exclaimed Phil, in remonstrance, but 
 before he could speak again, Corrie found her 
 voice. 
 
 " Personal reasons, Mrs. Geikie ! " she cried, as 
 tonished. " Why, I had no idea of asking you any 
 thing like that. There must be some mistake." 
 
 127
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Yes, mother, I hardly think Miss Robinson could 
 do that. How do you mean ? " 
 
 " Precisely what I say," answered his mother, 
 coldly. " Miss Robinson insists on our telling her 
 what we know of the person living in that house be 
 hind us. She says further she has seen Mrs. Pin- 
 chin coming out of it. And, as you are aware, I 
 know only one thing about the man who lives there 
 something that for years I have tried painfully to 
 forget." 
 
 But Corrie, alive to what their suspicion conveyed, 
 stood ready to plead her cause. " Oh, Mrs. Geikie, I 
 can't let you misunderstand me so ! " she protested. 
 " And you, Mr. Biggamore ! " she cried, turning to 
 him, " I never dreamed of offending you like that ! 
 I knew nothing about the people living in that house, 
 and even now I don't understand how anything I 
 have said should make such trouble ! " 
 
 Her earnestness carried conviction with it, and 
 even Mr. Biggamore and his sister seemed a little 
 less certain in their suspicion. 
 
 " Laura," said the little gentleman, " perhaps we 
 have done Miss Robinson an injustice. I think we 
 ought to tell her what we know, for no matter what 
 might be said about it, we have nothing after all 
 to conceal. Perhaps we may get some light on the 
 matter, too, for I frankly confess it 's far beyond 
 me." 
 
 Mrs. Geikie, looking at Corrie quietly, pondered 
 the question. " If you mean there is nothing for us 
 to hide, Philip, I agree with you. But Philip," she 
 
 128
 
 OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS 
 
 added definitely, " I am still to be convinced that 
 we should discuss this matter with anyone least of 
 all, when the person is a stranger who has not given 
 to us a very clear idea of what she is trying to find 
 out." She looked meaningly at Corrie. " I think even 
 Miss Robinson must assent to that." 
 
 " Mother ! " cried Phil, again. 
 
 But Mrs. Geikie gave no heed she had heard him. 
 " Perhaps Miss Robinson will tell us her motive for 
 wishing to know ? " 
 
 Yes, why Corrie wished to know! It seemed rea 
 sonable enough, and, of course, there were many de 
 cided reasons why Corrie wished to know. But to tell 
 them her motives and all about this matter of Corrie 
 who and Corrie what, argued a frankness that could 
 hardly be expected of her. It might do well enough 
 to admit to herself she knew nothing of her own name 
 and parentage, but to confess it to them and par 
 ticularly to this young and attractive boy well, 
 that was rather different! The thought of it was 
 enough to send the color into her cheeks, and she 
 dropped her eyes in embarrassment. 
 
 " I don't think I can tell you, Mrs. Geikie," she 
 answered slowly. " I have a reason, but it 's not the 
 one you think. I hope you will pardon me for making 
 you so much trouble." 
 
 But, as she moved toward the door, Phil Geikie 
 tried quietly to relieve the situation. " Mother," 
 said he, though his eyes were on Corrie, " you 
 must n't let Miss Robinson go like this. I don't 
 wonder she does n't care to say anything when we 
 9 129
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 have been so rude to her. Won't you try to 
 straighten it out? " 
 
 Corrie shook her head at him. " No, Mr. Geikie, 
 there is n't anything to be said now. I realize how 
 it must look to your mother, and she is quite right, I 
 think. It is queer, but I can't help myself, and I have 
 no right to bother her any more." 
 
 Then fearful lest they see the tears brimming in her 
 eyes, Corrie bent her head and hurriedly left the room, 
 her only wish to get away from the uncomfortable 
 predicament. 
 
 But, as the girl stumbled blindly down the little 
 flight of steps to the street, she was aware that he 
 had come with her, and was now looking down at her, 
 concerned for her trouble. " Please don't feel so 
 badly about it," he begged presently. " I don't 
 think mother realized how much it meant to you. 
 Miss Robinson," he added hesitatingly, as if fearful 
 of intruding himself, " is n't there some way I can 
 help you ? I have n't realized before this was so 
 serious a matter with you. If I could do anything, 
 or," he went on, still more earnestly, " if there were 
 some way you could let mother get at it, I 'm sure 
 she 'd be only too willing to aid you all she could. 
 She 's upset now. I don't think you know why, but 
 I assure you she has every reason to be. Why ! " he 
 exclaimed energetically, " you don't realize who the 
 man is that lives in the house behind us ! I '11 tell 
 you if you like." 
 
 At his earnestness Corrie forgot, for a moment, 
 her own concern. But with the instant's desire to 
 
 130
 
 OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS 
 
 hear what he had to tell came the fear that her long 
 ing to know might be construed only as vulgar curi 
 osity. " No, I think it would be better if you 
 did n't tell me," she cautioned dully ; " it probably 
 would n't mean anything to me, anyway." 
 
 But he gave no heed to the caution. " Perhaps it 
 would, though, and at all events there is really 
 nothing to conceal. The man is my uncle, Stanwood 
 Geikie." 
 
 " Oh ! " murmured Corrie, and echoed the name. 
 " Your uncle, and yet you have n't known that he 
 was acquainted with Mrs. Pinchin? " 
 
 But Stanwood Geikie! Who was he? and what 
 was his connection with the Pinchin matter? Of 
 course, the fact that the man was Philip Geikie's 
 uncle might in a way explain the curious behavior of 
 Mr. Biggamore and his sister; but beyond that, the 
 knowledge of their relationship with him served only 
 to throw her mind into a still greater confusion. For 
 what was the explanation of Mrs. Pinchin's connec 
 tion with this Stanwood Geikie? Why had she gone 
 to his house that morning? and what had taken her 
 there? Was her relation merely one between land 
 lord and tenant ? Was the house still hers ? and Mrs. 
 Pinchin a visitor only to inspect her property? 
 Furthermore, what was the antagonism between the 
 man and his relatives Mr. Biggamore, his sister, 
 and nephew ? 
 
 Corrie was still battling with her perplexities when 
 he spoke again. "Do you wonder now why my mother 
 and uncle were so suspicious ? " he inquired. " You 
 
 131
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 see, the truth is, they had already begun to imagine 
 something queer in Mrs. Pinchin's interest in me. 
 The fact that you had seen Mrs. Pinchin coming out 
 of his house turned their suspicions into certainty, 
 and they were ready then to suspect anyone. I 
 hardly need tell you they have every reason to dread 
 him ; you must have seen that from their manner." 
 
 " But I thought you were only Mrs. Pinchin's 
 architect ! " cried Corrie, all at sea. " Are n't you 
 only rebuilding some of her houses ? " 
 
 He smiled at her perplexity. " That 's the 
 queerest part about it," he replied ; " we were all in 
 the dark why she came to me with that work until 
 you turned on the light." Then he laughed, and 
 wrinkled up his face ruefully. " I suppose you 'd like 
 to know why? Well, in the first place, Mrs. Pinchin 
 is one of the very first clients who came to me. Not 
 because I had n't tried to get others," chuckled 
 young Mr. Geikie, making another face over it ; " oh, 
 no, indeed! But to make it clear to you, Mrs. Pin- 
 chin virtually dropped in on me out of a blue sky ; 
 particularly blue, it must have been, too, judging by 
 the way I felt. You see, I 'd j ust started in. At 
 all events, I got a note asking me to call on her. 
 Mind, now, I 'd never heard of her before ! and when 
 I went up to her house, she handed me out this com 
 mission. Of course," he added with a laughing good 
 humor, " with my own sublime knowledge of my 
 abilities and my certain fame and that, clients were 
 to be expected. Oh, yes ! and that 's what Uncle 
 Phil had kept on telling me when I got too much in 
 
 132
 
 OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS 
 
 the blues. Why, good heavens ! " here he chuckled 
 again, " to hear Uncle Phil go on you 'd think I 
 was a Viollet-le-Duc or a Christopher Wren. But 
 anyway, Mrs. Pinchin engaged me, and since then 
 I 've lain awake nights trying to figure out where she 
 ever heard of me, or why she ever trusted her precious 
 houses into the hands of an architect who was about 
 as well known to her as well, say John Smith in 
 the directory ! " 
 
 "Yes, it was queer, wasn't it?" assented Corrie, 
 with such unaffected frankness that he glanced at 
 her ruefully. " I don't wonder you thought so ! " 
 
 " Thanks, Miss Robinson ! Very nice of you to 
 say it," he retorted with a grin, and Corrie blushed 
 rosily. " But, never mind ; it did seem queer, and I 
 told my uncle I thought so, too." 
 
 " And what did he say ? " 
 
 "He? Oh, he just said 'Pooh!' He had it all fig 
 ured out that talent like mine could n't remain hid 
 den under a bushel, and that news of my coming had 
 already leaked out to an expectant world. But 
 mother was n't so ready to deceive herself. She 
 thought I was the boy wonder, of course, but still 
 she tried to find out something from her friends 
 about this Mrs. Pinchin." 
 
 " Did anyone know her? " asked Corrie, quickly. 
 
 " No. No one knew Mrs. Pinchin, it appeared. 
 But that is n't strange," he exclaimed clearly. 
 " Mother's friends are the kind that have never 
 known anyone else but themselves since they came 
 over in the Ark. I don't believe they 're acquainted 
 
 133
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 with a soul above Fifty-ninth Street, and mighty 
 few, besides, above Murray Hill, that is, if you 
 except a few strays that have been driven northward 
 out of their ancestral homes by someone putting up 
 a factory next door, or an office building that cut off 
 all the light. You know how the Avenue 's been 
 changed around the last few years. Why," he 
 laughed, " one of mother's friends was complain 
 ing the other day that all the lower part had been 
 turned into a sweatshop now, and that her front 
 steps had become a noonday luncheon counter. You 
 know how they pour out of those big buildings at 
 noon? Well, mother advised her friend to move. 
 ' Move ! ' she screamed, * like some vulgar millionaire 
 with a house up around the Park ? I '11 have you 
 to understand that the Duyckirks move only once 
 in their lives, and that 's to Greenwood Cemetery ! ' 
 But to get back to Mrs. Pinchin. No one seemed to 
 know anything about her." 
 
 *' Yes," Corrie assented, " no one seems to know 
 at all. I wish I knew myself." 
 
 " You know nothing about her ? " he echoed, as if 
 not quite understanding what she meant. " How was 
 it then, may I ask, that you went to live with her? " 
 
 If the young man had stopped to think a moment, 
 he might not have asked so impertinent a question 
 a question that, if answered frankly, might have given 
 Corrie no little embarrassment to answer. " I 've 
 lived with her a long while," she replied evasively; 
 " but I know only that she calls herself Mrs. Pinchin. 
 I don't know much else about her, though." 
 
 134
 
 OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS 
 
 To have disclosed more would have been also to 
 disclose the fact that she had gone to Mrs. Pinchin as 
 a child, an admission that in itself would have re 
 quired still further explanations; and Corrie was 
 still determined to hide from him the fact that she 
 had been adopted, that she knew nothing of her par 
 entage, that her origin was to her an unsolved riddle. 
 The result was that he jumped at an entirely differ 
 ent conclusion. 
 
 " Oh, I see how it is now ! " he cried animatedly. 
 Why, of course ! how stupid of me ! You 're trying 
 to find out who she is, so that you '11 know whether 
 it 's proper for you to live with her. Now, why 
 did n't you say so to mother? " 
 
 Corrie understood him instantly. " No," she an 
 swered, unwilling to deceive him openly, though the 
 explanation would prove embarrassing, " that was n't 
 it altogether. It means more than finding out 
 about Mrs. Pinchin. It meant finding out about 
 myself as well something I can't talk to you 
 about," she admitted unguardedly. 
 
 His look of quick astonishment warned her she was 
 going too far now, and she paused, looking up at him. 
 " Mr Geikie," she said, and involuntarily laid a hand 
 on the young man's arm, " you can trust me, can't 
 you? I want you and your mother to know I had a 
 real reason for going to your house to-day. It is 
 something of a good deal of importance to me. 
 You '11 believe that, and trust me, won't you? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed I will ! " he answered sincerely. 
 " You don't need to ask that of me," he added ; and 
 
 135
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 as they went on through the quiet, deserted street, 
 she felt his hand clasp hers with a gentle, reassuring 
 pressure. " Can't you see that I do? " 
 
 She let her hand remain in his for a moment, and 
 then quietly disengaged it, her eyes softly grateful. 
 He was the first to speak then. " Some day," he 
 ventured smilingly, " you must tell what it is that 
 troubles you. I won't ask it now. But, in the mean 
 while, maybe I can do something to help you. Is 
 there anything I can tell you about that man, for 
 instance my uncle Stanwood ? " 
 
 There was much that he might tell her, but with 
 that new understanding between them, the sympathy 
 he had shown in that gentle clasp of her fingers, she 
 scarcely dared impose on it. Even her own desire 
 to find out about herself was not so great that she 
 would willingly risk the pain it might give him to 
 probe the wound of their own trouble. But he seemed 
 to guess her feeling the reason why she shook her 
 head. 
 
 " Tell me, is it about Mrs. Pinchin ? " he haz 
 arded. " About her and my uncle ? Yes, I thought 
 so ! But that 's a thing we 'd all like to find out. 
 No," he added convincingly ; " until you said you 'd 
 seen Mrs. Pinchin coming down the steps of his 
 house, our wildest imagination never took in the pos 
 sibility that he and Mrs. Pinchin knew each other. 
 Now how he came to know her and what these two 
 persons are to each other is as much of a puzzle as 
 what they are really up to. Jove! I only wish I 
 knew ! " 
 
 136
 
 OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS 
 
 It seemed to Corrie that she was doomed to an ever 
 lasting hopelessness in trying to find out anything. 
 Was there no one that knew? or was the secret to 
 remain forever locked grimly in Mrs. Pinchin's 
 breast? The utterly hopeless suggestion came to 
 her that she would spend the rest of her life in just- 
 such disappointments. They had all been alike, from 
 now back to the time when she had talked to the 
 brown-haired boy with the bread and jam. Why 
 had fate dragged up Mrs. Pinchin at the crucial mo 
 ment? But it was fate, of course, the fate that al 
 ways must pursue her. Now, if Mrs. Pinchin had not 
 come along when she was talking to the brown-haired 
 boy 
 
 Corrie looked up with a startled little exclamation. 
 
 " Mr. Geikie ! oh, how stupid of me ! why, of 
 course! There was a boy that lived in your house 
 no, I have n't told you about him before and he 
 
 had brown hair thick, wavy, brown hair, and 
 a 
 
 Corrie halted herself in time. " Do you remember 
 my saying something this morning about a maiden 
 locked up in an ogre's castle and how a Prince 
 Charming came to her rescue? " 
 
 For a moment the young man looked at her 
 thoughtfully, and then his hand stole to the tip of his 
 nose and deliberately felt it. 
 
 " Yes, and I have a very distinct remembrance of 
 your saying your Prince had a snub nose. I wonder 
 whether you could possibly mean me? " he inquired 
 ruefully. " Is it really as bad as that? " 
 
 137
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Corrie, laughing and blushing together, violently 
 shook her head. " I take it all back ! But listen ! " 
 she cried a little excitedly, " don't you remember 
 talking to me through the back fence? Please try 
 to remember. It was when I was a little girl. I lived 
 in that house behind yours, and Mrs. Pinchin lived 
 there, too." 
 
 He looked at her in astonishment. " Well, this is 
 news to me ! " he exclaimed ; and so it was, as Corrie 
 realized, when she recalled he had not been present 
 when she told it to his mother and Mr. Biggamore. 
 " You lived there ! in Uncle Stanwood's ? I wish 
 you 'd tell me about it." 
 
 " No ! wait a moment, won't you ? Don't you re 
 member climbing up on the top of the fence, and 
 looking over? Then you got down and kicked in a 
 loose board, and I was dreadfully frightened. You 
 had a slice of bread and jam. Oh, don't you re 
 member? You gave me a bite, and you were going 
 to tell me what your father said, but Mrs. Pinchin 
 came and dragged me away. Now! oh, can't you 
 remember? " 
 
 But the moment the question had been spoken she 
 regretted it with a sudden, awakening terror. For 
 what would it be his father had told him? As well as 
 not, it might entail some shameful revelation of just 
 what she dreaded to learn, the true fact of her origin, 
 and a fact so embarrassing that it might hurt him to 
 repeat it. Or worse than that, something so shame 
 ful that he would not dare to reveal it at all! A 
 frantic desire to warn him he must not try to think 
 
 138
 
 OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS 
 
 seized her, and she was just on the point of crying 
 out she did n't care to know, when he spoke. 
 
 " I don't remember a thing about it, Miss Rob 
 inson," he declared, puckering his brow thoughtfully. 
 " It was something my father told me, you say? " he 
 repeated gravely, and there came into his eyes then, 
 as she saw, the same look of shadowy pain that had 
 clouded his mother's face when she spoke of the man 
 long dead. " You see, my father died many years 
 ago. It was just a day or so after we came to this 
 house. He and I were alone there a day or so before 
 mother came, and I must have forgotten what he told 
 me." There he paused, and looked away still more 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 Beyond, at the street end, the city's voice raised 
 itself in a nearer, louder murmur; they were ap 
 proaching Eighth Street, the Elevated, the surface 
 cars, and all the rest of the busy life that trafficked 
 noisily up and down the crowded thoroughfare of 
 Sixth Avenue. An L train, rolling northward, gath 
 ered way from the station, and rumbling off on the 
 high, stilted trestle, sent discordant, clanking echoes 
 beating back and forth among the crowding walls 
 of Jefferson Market and the brick buildings on the 
 other side. A surface car, stalled behind a line of 
 trucks and delivery wagons, clanged and clacked and 
 clamored for the right of way; there was noise and 
 activity, the town's turmoil, all around ; and even the 
 most unconcerned of the wayfarers coming out of 
 the quiet side streets into that channel of the city's 
 life, seemed to catch, on the instant, that same hurry 
 
 139
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 and bustle, and to be quickened by it until they, too, 
 unconsciously hurried. 
 
 But these two, absorbed only in themselves, seemed 
 remotely distanced from that busy world so close 
 beyond. " The fact is," said he, after a long pause, 
 " my father killed himself, and it was because of this 
 uncle of mine, Stanwood Geikie." 
 
 " Oh, how dreadful ! " uttered the girl, shocked 
 both by the words and the resentful tone in which 
 they were spoken. " Oh, how terrible ! " 
 
 " Yes," he answered, in the same, bitter, accusing 
 voice, " Stanwood Geikie tricked and ruined him, 
 and my father shot himself. I thought everyone 
 knew ; though, of course, you could n't. You were 
 too young then. But it was n't because he had lost his 
 money ! No ! " he laughed harshly, " that was n't 
 the cause. And my mother well, you can see 
 what it 's done to her. She 's never gotten over it." 
 
 His voice had dropped into a quiet simplicity of 
 tone after that first vindictive utterance, and its 
 quietness shocked her even more. Once again, she 
 laid a hand impulsively on his arm; for in the mo 
 ment the girl realized how cruelly, even though un 
 wittingly, she must have torn open the scar of their 
 unforgettable trouble. " Oh, how sorry I am ! " she 
 whispered. " And to think how I must have hurt 
 your mother ! " 
 
 " Mother will forgive you ; you could n't have 
 known," he answered gently. " But this uncle of 
 
 mine " He paused long enough to control 
 
 himself. " Well, the point is, that even after my 
 
 140
 
 OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS 
 
 father's death, my uncle would n't let us alone. All 
 my mother's money was gone yes, and most of 
 Uncle Phil's too; we were nearly cleaned out, you 
 know. So we had to move into this little house of 
 ours. Well, we went on living there after father's 
 death, and then one day we awoke and found Uncle 
 Stanwood camped down right at our elbows. Mother 
 and Uncle Phil nearly died of fright when they found 
 it out yes, they were nearly beside themselves, I 
 think; and really you can't wonder at it, if you 
 take into account what kind of man my Uncle Stan- 
 wood is. They thought he might do something to 
 me ; why, I could n't tell you, nor they either, per 
 haps, should one ask them. But why my Uncle Stan- 
 wood came to live there, right next to us, or why he 
 has watched and spied and prowled around us so for 
 years, no one seems able to understand. Mother be 
 lieves we shall find out, some day, and she shudders 
 every time she thinks of it." 
 
 " But has he never done anything, ever tried to 
 get at you, or anything like that ? " asked Corrie, 
 breathlessly. "Aren't you afraid of him?" 
 
 " I ? Not for myself. He 's tried to speak to me 
 two or three times oh, much more than that 
 dozens of times when I was a boy. When he 'd see me 
 coming, he 'd begin to smile and get ready to pat 
 me on the head, and then one time he offered me 
 money. Jove, j ust think of it ! the scoundrel handed 
 me out a dollar, and a dollar looked as big to me in 
 those days why, as big as the moon. I was only 
 fourteen then, and there was n't much money left for 
 
 141
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 me to throw around no, I should say not. But I 
 took his dollar." 
 
 " You took it ! " cried Corrie, the unflattering com 
 ment springing to her lips in her astonishment. 
 
 He smiled at her quietly. " Yes, I took it, and if 
 you should ever see my Uncle Stanwood, look closely 
 at the corner of his mouth. I was only a boy then, but 
 I was a pretty vigorous boy, pretty hot tempered 
 and able to understand, too, some of the things that 
 had happened. Yes, I took his dollar, but I gave it 
 back to him, too. I but I won't speak of that 
 I should n't have mentioned it at all." 
 
 " But I wish to know," persisted the girl. " I wish 
 you 'd tell me." 
 
 " There is n't anything to tell very little except 
 that he never offered me money again." 
 
 " What do you mean ? You gave it back to him ? " 
 
 " Yes, I pegged it at his head, and then I cut and 
 ran for it as hard as I could up the street. He 
 started after me, too ; but then, he never stood a 
 chance; and when I looked back he was holding a 
 hand to his lip and shaking his fist. ' I '11 fix you for 
 this, you young whelp ! " he roared, and shook his fist 
 again. But he never bothered me after that, though 
 Uncle Phil didn't let me off so easily." 
 
 "Why why, what did he do?" questioned Corrie. 
 
 " Do ? Well, he pulled my ear, if you really care 
 to know. He was furious because I had stopped even 
 long enough to let Stanwood Geikie hand me the dol 
 lar. My! but Uncle Phil was in a terrible stew. I 
 thought he 'd pull out all his front hair before he got 
 
 142
 
 OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS 
 
 through storming at me. ' Gave you a dollar, hey ? ' 
 he exploded, and went stamping out of the room, only 
 to stamp back again shortly. ' You pegged it at his 
 head, did you? ' he roared, and I hung my head and 
 said I had. * Outrageous ! ' he burst out, and went 
 clattering off, only to clatter back again a few 
 minutes later. ' Sure he hit him? ' he demanded. 
 ' Did you now, or are you just Major Bigtalk mak 
 ing up a good story ? ' But I knew what I was talk 
 ing about. ' Hit him in the face, did it ? Well ! ' he 
 exclaimed, and then my Uncle Phil came as near 
 swearing as I ever knew him to come. Want to know 
 what he said, Miss Robinson ? " inquired Phil, a 
 twinkle in his eyes. 
 
 " No, no ! you must n't. I won't listen ! " cried 
 Corrie, covering her two pink ears with two slender 
 hands. But young Mr. Geikie rudely ignored her 
 protest. "He said Uncle Phil said, * Well, I'll 
 be j iggered ! I '11 be eternally j iggered ! ' With 
 that, my uncle put his hand into his pockets, 
 stuffed a whole handful of silver into my hat, and 
 scowling terribly, rushed out and slammed the 
 front door behind him. Yes, there was a good 
 reason why my Uncle Stanwood never tackled me 
 again." 
 
 " Of course he would n't," laughed Corrie ; " not 
 after you 'd thrown things at his head." 
 
 " But it was n't that altogether," he corrected. 
 " I think it was more because Uncle Phil took the law 
 into his own hands. I found out later where he 'd 
 gone when he flung himself out and slammed the door 
 
 143
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 behind him. He looks meek and mild enough, ordi 
 narily, but I can tell you, too, that Uncle Phil does n't 
 lack sand when it 's necessary not a bit of it ! 
 Why, he marched straight around the corner to my 
 Uncle Stanwood's and rang the bell, and when the 
 servant opened the door, Uncle Phil brushed past her, 
 and went right up the stairs to the man's room. 
 Mother told me that much, and that Uncle Phil 
 warned him to let me alone ; but how he warned him 
 or what he said and did, I can only surmise. I know, 
 though, that Uncle Stanwood never bothered me 
 again ; no, he never so much as noticed me after that, 
 unless it was occasionally to grin at me in that sar 
 donic, supercilious way of his." 
 
 " But did you never learn," asked Corrie, " why he 
 tried so hard to make friends with you? " 
 
 " No, it was just some whim of his, some deviltry, 
 perhaps. I suppose if I 'd listened to him he would 
 have tried to turn me into the kind of man he is 
 himself. After that business of the dollar and what 
 I 'd shown I thought of him, we rather hoped he 'd 
 move out of the neighborhood. But he stayed on, 
 year after year, and, after a while, we learned he 
 owned that house. He 'd bought it, or he 'd got it 
 away from the owners by some swindle or other 
 some way in which he is clever enough. It belonged 
 to the Tollabees, the same people from whom we 
 bought our own house." 
 
 Corrie, her face aglow with sudden excitement, in 
 terrupted him with an exclamation. " Tollabee ! I 
 know that name. Tell me ! " she exclaimed, " who 
 
 144
 
 OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS 
 
 were those people? Tell me what you know of 
 them!" 
 
 For that was the name that had been scrawled in 
 a boyish hand on the fly leaf of the book of fairy 
 tales : 
 
 " When this you see, 
 Remember me. 
 
 R. tollabee, his Book." 
 
 " Did the Tollabees own that house? " she cried 
 breathlessly. " I wish, if you know, that you 'd tell 
 me about them. Who were they ? " 
 
 He regarded her for a moment, perplexed by her 
 growing excitement. " Yes, I know something about 
 the family, though we have n't heard of them for 
 years. See here, now, Miss Robinson, don't tell me 
 they have anything to do with this Pinchin business 
 have they ? " He, too, looked a little startled when 
 she nodded her head. " Do you really mean it? 
 Phew! " His exclamation of wonder was expressive. 
 " Very well, then, I '11 tell you what I know first, and 
 then you 've got to tell me what you know. In the. first 
 place, Margaret Tollabee was my Uncle Stanwood's 
 wife or is supposed to be, if she 's still living. 
 Now how does that strike you? Does it shed any 
 light on the subject? " 
 
 Corrie answered him as calmly as the circumstances 
 would permit. " I don't know yet. But was she re 
 lated in any way to an R. Tollabee ? I know only the 
 name." 
 
 Phil nodded slowly. " You must mean Randolph 
 10 145
 
 CORHIE WHO? 
 
 Tollabee and, well why I think I '11 have to tell 
 you the rest of it. The truth is, he was a friend of 
 my father's ; one of his closest friends," he added 
 painfully. " After my father died killed himself, 
 Miss Robinson, they said my father had ruined him, 
 too. My Uncle Stanwood spread the lie ; we 've found 
 out that much, anyway, and he did it to save himself. 
 Of course, you can make up your mind what kind of 
 man it is that lies about his own brother in that 
 fashion and when he 's dead and in the grave, too. 
 Well, he '11 have to settle for that, some day." 
 
 So here was something else to add to the tangle. 
 Corrie's mind tried to take it all in, but, at the best, 
 her conclusions were of the vaguest. First Mrs. 
 Pinchin, then Stanwood Geikie, and now the Tolla- 
 bees, wheels within wheels, and all buzzing com 
 fortably. She recalled in the moment's confusion 
 Mrs. Pinchin's own excitement over the name, her 
 emotion at the time when Corrie, as a child, had gone 
 to her "I want my Tollabee book, Mrs. Pinchin." 
 Phil seemed to read in her face some sign of her 
 reflection. 
 
 " Do you happen to know anything about Ran 
 dolph Tollabee? " he asked alertly, " and has it 
 really anything to do with Mrs. Pinchin? " 
 
 She told him now. With no effort to conceal any 
 thing, she told of the book, and of her childhood, and 
 of Mrs. Pinchin's swift confusion at the mention of 
 the name. Nothing was omitted but the grave ques 
 tion of Corrie's origin ; she was still unprepared to 
 confess that openly to him, last of all. 
 
 146
 
 OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS 
 
 " Queer, is n't it? " he observed thoughtfully, bit 
 ing his lip. " I don't know how much it conveys to 
 you, but to us who know well, the least I can say 
 is that it 's pretty significant." 
 
 To Corrie it seemed quite as significant, or rather, 
 suggestive. " Don't you suppose," she faltered hesi 
 tatingly, " that I could find Miss Tollabee, your 
 Uncle Stanwood's wife ? Has n't anything been 
 heard of her lately? She might know something." 
 
 He frowned thoughtfully before he answered. "I've 
 been trying to remember what became of her," he 
 said slowly ; " but I think she and her child there 
 was one, if I recall rightly I don't believe they 've 
 been heard of for years. My mother never knew any 
 of the Tollabees but Randolph. Margaret was only 
 his step-sister." 
 
 They were at the Avenue crossing now, the square, 
 brick tower of Jefferson Market looming high above, 
 and the L trains rattling along the ugly overhead 
 trestle. Many in the crowd stared curiously at the 
 two the girl and the young man ; she flushed with 
 excitement, and he grave and concerned. But they 
 gave no heed. The tangled skein, though still 
 knotted and snarled, seemed in a fair way to be un 
 raveled, or, at least to be reaching a point where 
 some dexter hand might attack it with some cer 
 tainty of clearing up the snarl. " Well, we can't do 
 any more to-day to clear up this mess," said Phil. 
 He bit his lip again, and looked down at her curiously, 
 almost attentively. 
 
 " No ; and I must be getting home," added Corrie, 
 147
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 glancing up at the tower clock. " I had no idea it 
 was so late. I wonder what Mrs. Pinchin will say." 
 
 He stared at her again, a little uncertainly, after 
 he had guided her across the street to the stairs of 
 the L station. " You '11 come back to the house 
 again, won't you? " he asked, and then added slowly: 
 " You see, I think mother will want you to come back. 
 Listen ! if anything happens to you at Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's I mean you '11 come to us, won't you. Of 
 course," he went on guardedly, " nothing is likely to 
 happen, but if it does, I hope you '11 send for me." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Pinchin is n't likely to eat me ! " 
 laughed Corrie, lightly, and at her amusement he 
 again looked at her curiously so curiously that 
 the smile faded. " Why, what is it? " she asked ner 
 vously, " do you know anything about Mrs. Pinchin 
 you have n't told me ? " 
 
 " No ; it 's not anything I know," he answered, 
 still cautiously, " but I 've begun to suspect some 
 thing. I want you to promise me something you 
 will, won't you, Corrie?" Corrie! her heart 
 thumped at that, though she said nothing to rebuke 
 him. " If you need a friend, or someone to go to, 
 why, I hope you '11 think of us." 
 
 He took her hand, and this time without attempt 
 ing to draw away, she let her fingers lie in his clasp. 
 " Yes, I promise," she answered, smiling at him ; 
 " and it 's very nice to have a friend, too." 
 
 He still held her hand, smiling once more. " Tell 
 me something, won't you? " he asked, trying to hide 
 the dancing light in his eyes. 
 
 148
 
 OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS 
 
 Corrie laughed again. " That depends. What 
 is it? " 
 
 She felt his fingers tighten a little on hers. 
 " You 're going to be frightfully angry at me now," 
 he warned, twinkling. " Last night at Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's why did you try to make yourself look so ? 
 You know what I mean." 
 
 Corrie burst into a little ripple of amusement and 
 dragged her hand away. Then she blushed. 
 " Dowdy, I suppose you mean. You would be dowdy, 
 too," she answered, " if you were I and are n't you 
 just a little impertinent? " 
 
 " You have n't told me why, yet," he persisted, 
 eyes still dancing. 
 
 "You're just as horrid as those other men," she 
 declared, outraged, and there he burst into a laugh. 
 
 " I thought so ! But you can't blame them for 
 staring when you 're so pretty ! " 
 
 Corrie, blushing furiously now, fled up the steps 
 to the station away from him. 
 
 149
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Carrie's return. Miss Maria's nerves and Mrs. Pinchin's 
 ready remedy. The item in the personal column. Miss 
 Maria's defiant plea. Mrs. Pinchin reads the newspaper. 
 
 Her forced composure in the face of trying circumstances. 
 
 Miss Maria varies her habit of weeping by falling in 
 a faint. The astonishing keepsake hung around Miss 
 Maria's neck. Her terror on regaining her senses. 
 Phil telephones. 
 
 TT^ILLED with this new-found knowledge, alive to 
 * the possible significance of her bewildering suc 
 cession of discoveries, Corrie hurried homeward to 
 Mrs. Pinchin's. She knew what she might expect 
 when she reached there a scene, perhaps, a blast 
 of Mrs. Pinchin's vituperative rage, or, at the very 
 least, a berating from Miss Maria in her most acid 
 tones; yet, for the first time in her life, Corrie felt 
 no fear of what might happen, no matter how great 
 their anger. What she had found out had armed 
 her with determined self-reliance; and though she 
 still lacked a very clear idea of what her discoveries 
 meant to herself, she was, at least, sure that she held 
 a powerful trump card to play over Mrs. Pinchin's 
 lead. If worst came to the worst, she would confront 
 Mrs. Pinchin with what she had learned, and then she 
 should see what happened. 
 
 But no As the L train rumbled northward, 
 she sat reflecting, and reflection showed her the 
 
 150
 
 THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN 
 
 unwisdom of such a course. No, she must do nothing 
 like that. She must guard her secret craftily, await 
 ing the moment when it should prove of a real ad 
 vantage. To let Mrs. Pinchin know now that she 
 had learned, if not all, at least a hint of her singular 
 history, might become a blunder never to be repaired. 
 For Corrie, with a wisdom bred of long experience, 
 could only acknowledge to herself that in point of 
 cunning, craftiness, even determination, she was far 
 outmatched by Mrs. Pinchin, and there was no tell 
 ing what that determined lady might do to balk her 
 were she to find out what Corrie knew. No, she must 
 bide her time; hold her tongue; wait to play her 
 trump card, when the moment came to turn the win 
 ning trick. 
 
 She reached the door and rang. Excuses, per 
 haps, were in order; but Corrie had none. Let them 
 make a scene, if they wished; she was too tired to 
 care much. A faint hope momentarily encouraged 
 her the possibility of reaching her room unde 
 tected. If she could n't well 
 
 It was Miss Maria who opened the front door 
 Miss Maria, peering forth nervously expectant. 
 Many hours had passed since she had last laid eyes 
 on Corrie indeed, it was now after two o'clock in 
 the afternoon and though Miss Maria must have 
 enjoyed an ample opportunity for nursing whatever 
 wrath she felt, it bespoke itself now, only in a small 
 ruffling of her brows. " Oh, it 's you, is it? " she 
 commented, a scarcely perceptible mockery in her 
 tone, " and where have you been, may I ask? " 
 
 151
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Corrie answered as briefly. " Down town, Miss 
 Maria. I went on an errand for myself." 
 
 " An errand an errand for yourself," echoed 
 Miss Maria, dispiritedly. " Well it 's no concern of 
 mine. Mrs. Pinchin can do as she likes yes. It 's 
 no concern of mine, and if you " 
 
 But the remainder of what Miss Maria had to say 
 droned off into an indistinguishable, almost inaudible 
 murmur, as she shambled toward the stairs. So 
 that ordeal was over! It was easier, far easier even 
 than Corrie had hoped. 
 
 Slowly she went on her way to her room. Already 
 she felt the reaction from the day's excitement; she 
 was weary, fagged out, depressed; and after taking 
 off her hat and jacket, she dropped limply into the 
 nearest chair, and folding her hands together, stared 
 thoughtfully at the wall. Where was it all to end, 
 and when? What was she to learn, too, once this 
 tangle in her life had unraveled itself? A deep sigh 
 escaped her, and then, with a little flutter of her heart 
 and an awakening, softening light in her eyes, there 
 flashed into the girl's mind anew the memory of that 
 moment with the boy, the brief seconds when he had 
 held her hand in his, and, for the first time, uncon 
 sciously had uttered her name. Corrie! That name, 
 at least, held some significance now something, 
 as if it had been given to her with a real baptismal 
 a meaning to dignify it ever in her mihd ! Then 
 a furious blush mounted to her cheeks, and, after a 
 quick, conscious glance at the mirror on her dressing 
 table, a glance that added only to her confusion, she 
 
 152
 
 THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN 
 
 leaped up from her chair and stepped out into the 
 hall. 
 
 The house was silent. Corrie, tiptoeing to the 
 balustrade, listened for a moment and then opened 
 a door at her right. It led into the dark, stuffy gar 
 ret where for years Mrs. Pinchin had stored the dis 
 carded odds and ends of her many possessions ; yet 
 dark and crowded as it was, Corrie moved confidently 
 into its darkness. 
 
 At each side of the doorway the Pinchin trunks 
 raised a double wall fat, immense, brass-bound, 
 portly trunks, the kind that just such a person as 
 Mrs. Pinchin would affect. Beyond them the garret 
 was stacked from the floor to the ceiling with the in 
 discriminate flotsam and jetsam of her housekeeping 
 broken-down chairs and tables, superannuated bed 
 steads and bureaus, decrepit towel racks and picture 
 frames, rolls of rugs and carpets, moth-eaten and 
 threadbare; and, with it all, set about on the floor 
 and on bureau and table-tops, a perfect infirmary of 
 chinaware and bric-a-brac. In that alone one might 
 have calculated to a nicety the various eras of Mrs. 
 Pinchin's domestic history, though it was now for no 
 such a purpose that Corrie threaded her way among 
 its dust-laid, narrow channels, making for a distant 
 corner. There the cracked and blistered mirror of a 
 dressing table gleamed like a beacon to guide her, 
 and reaching down beneath it, Corrie pulled open its 
 lowest drawer. 
 
 A bulky bundle wrapped in yellowing newspaper 
 met her hand. She drew it forth from its hiding 
 
 153
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 place, and after carefully closing the drawer again, 
 Corrie tiptoed back to her room. There she stripped 
 off the wrappings, and drawing a chair to the window, 
 began slowly turning over the pages of this dearest 
 possession of hers the fat, brass-bound, leather 
 portrait album. 
 
 One by one, the hours passed; darkness fell on 
 the city. From her high window the girl could look 
 southward over the sweep of roofs and chimneys far 
 down into the heart of the striving, big and impul 
 sive, thoughtless, careless town. Somewhere within 
 it somewhere within its maze of streets and avenues 
 and boulevards somewhere within that countless 
 myriad of houses that raised their blank, untelling 
 faces beside the way somewhere there lived and 
 breathed and knew, perhaps, the ones in whose breast 
 was locked the key to that mystery she longed to 
 solve the secret of herself. But where was she to 
 look where to turn her face, expectantly or with 
 hope? She stared down at the sprawling city, its 
 length and breadth lost now in the gathering dusk; 
 and out of the darkness, its lights, growing like the 
 sky's stellar host, winked back at her merrily, bright 
 and twinkling and careless, dancing in the crisp 
 spring air as if they jeered her in mockery. If she 
 had friends, a single friend But Corrie had no 
 friends. Mrs. Pinchin had deprived her of that 
 denied her even the least of them denied her that 
 as she had deprived the child of her childhood. No 
 friends no one not even 
 
 Pale, transfigured, her shadowy eyes filled with 
 154
 
 THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN 
 
 deeper, graver shadow, the girl arose and stared long 
 through her window southward at the darkening 
 city. Somewhere within its heart somewhere 
 there far down among its streets yes, after all, 
 there was one one, indeed really one had taken 
 pity. Slowly, all unconscious of herself, she stretched 
 forth her hands together. " Friend friend ! Be 
 that always my friend dear friend ! " she whis 
 pered, a faint smile playing on her lips. " One friend 
 yes ! " Then she turned away. 
 
 Long afterward, the girl arose in the dark and 
 lighted her table lamp an oil lamp, since Mrs. Pin- 
 chin admitted no such extravagance for her paid 
 companion as the use of gas. Sitting down beside 
 the light, she picked up the album again, and began 
 to wrap it up. A step sounded on the stair; she 
 paused, listening. The step drew nearer ; she thrust 
 the book on the table, her heart beating the instant's 
 alarm. Mrs. Pinchin yes ! The door flew open 
 and there she stood Mrs. Pinchin with her cane 
 uplifted, leveled like an accusing finger. Thus came 
 Mrs. Pinchin, fired with an ugly wrath. " You ! " 
 she cried. "You!" 
 
 But out of this dramatic event, as dramatic as any 
 in the eventful day, Corrie obtained one piece of 
 knowledge, at least, that became of immediate advan 
 tage. It was the knowledge that Mrs. Pinchin no 
 longer dared treat her as she had treated her when a 
 child. Furthermore, Mrs. Pinchin's quick surrender 
 to her threat that Corrie would leave, assured Corrie 
 she held another trump card though why, she 
 
 155
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 could n't decide. But that Mrs. Pinchin really feared 
 something like this was evident, obvious even though 
 there were no more explanation of the cause than 
 there was to the other perplexities that had crowded 
 together in the day. Whatever the reason, it gave 
 added strength to her confidence. For, once that she 
 had shown fear, Mrs. Pinchin was no longer so 
 terribly to be feared. 
 
 " No, Mrs. Pinchin," Corrie had said quietly, 
 " you know who I am. Some day on your death 
 bed, perhaps some day you will tell me. I shall 
 not leave you till then." 
 
 Then, after that encounter, came the further re 
 action. The door closed on Mrs. Pinchin's depart 
 ing figure ; the girl turned, drew her breath sharply, 
 and all her courage running to the dregs, she threw 
 herself on her bed and gave way to weakening, 
 relieving tears. Long afterward she arose, un 
 dressed, and crept down among the covers. Sleep 
 oh, if she could sleep, and in that find forgetfulness ! 
 Once more, in the dark, Corrie sat up in her bed and 
 pressed her feverish hands to her hot and throbbing 
 temples. Corrie Who? and Corrie What ? Could she 
 never, never learn? 
 
 Downstairs in her room Mrs Pinchin, armed with 
 a bottle of smelling-salts, sat propped up in her own 
 bed. Miss Maria, white and shifty-eyed, sat beside 
 her, her spare figure gauntly outlined in her cotton 
 nightdress, her hair screwed up into an attenuated 
 pigtail, and all the more grotesque, homely and un- 
 
 156
 
 THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN 
 
 appealing in her decollete. Staring through her 
 spectacles at Mrs. Pinchin, who was holding the smell 
 ing-salts first to one nostril and then to the other 
 and snuffing and sniffing absorbedly, Miss Maria 
 suddenly burst into tears. 
 
 " Judie oh, please, please, Judie, won't you tell 
 me what we 're going to do ? " 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin removed the salts from her nose. 
 " Here, you stop that ! " she ordered truculently ; 
 " if you ain't got any spunk of your own, I ain't 
 going to let you make me miserable. Get out of here 
 do you hear me ? " 
 
 The door closed on Miss Maria's abject figure, and 
 leaning over to the table beside the bed, Mrs. Pinchin 
 helped herself to a glass of sherry and a vanilla 
 wafer. Guzzling and grunting, overwrought, irri 
 tated even in that moment of grateful self-indul 
 gence, she gulped down the sherry noisily, set the 
 glass on the stand, and then with a last final scowl 
 of annoyance, reached up and turned out the gas. 
 " Hunh ! " she grunted, and reposed herself to 
 slumber. 
 
 Morning came another day. Throughout the 
 long, wakeful night Corrie had tossed in fitful 
 dreams. Glad of the dawn, at last, she arose long 
 before either Mrs. Pinchin or Miss Maria were 
 awake, and dressing hastily, made her way quietly 
 down the stairs. 
 
 Maggie, the surly housemaid, had just finished 
 sweeping the drawing-room and hall. She acknowl- 
 
 157
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 edged Corrie's good morning with her usual grumpi- 
 ness, and picking up the dustpan and broom, clumped 
 away down the passage to the basement stairs. Cor- 
 rie wandered aimlessly about the silent rooms, won 
 dering how long it would be before she could hope 
 for breakfast, and she was still wondering when she 
 heard Maggie toiling up the stairs again. The maid 
 appeared to be in a less surly, offensive mood. 
 " Wad ye like a cup o' coffee? " she asked almost 
 civilly, " and the bit av a roll to it ? " Corrie 
 thanked her gratefully, and presently Maggie re 
 turned with a tray. Setting it down on the dining- 
 room table, she waited until Corrie had seated herself, 
 and then backed off as far as the hearth rug, where 
 she planted herself with her hands folded beneath 
 her apron. " Anyway, it 's a hard time ye 're havin' 
 wit them two ladies," she growled, as if offering a 
 brief explanation for her decency ; " sure I c'd be 
 sorry for ye meself." 
 
 Flushing painfully, Corrie sent the girl back to 
 her work. " Oh, ye 're a lady, anyhow," Maggie 
 grumbled, determined to have her say ; " it don't 
 take more 'n the fill av me eyes to see ut, an' that 's 
 what I wudd n't say av others I c'd name." 
 
 Corrie ignored this, too, but the girl had no 
 sooner withdrawn than there rushed over Corrie the 
 feeling that she had been both unkind and unjust in 
 resenting what was meant only as a kindness, one of 
 the very few, too, she had known in that house. 
 While she was still considering it, Maggie re 
 appeared. 
 
 158
 
 THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN 
 
 " Wad ye have a look at the morning's paper? " 
 asked the girl; and Corrie, with a new note of gen 
 tleness in her voice, thanked her with a smile. 
 
 Corrie rarely read the newspapers; but rather 
 than offend Maggie by her indifference, she propped 
 it up in front of her and idly scanned the columns 
 while she munched her toast. It was the usual type 
 of the metropolitan journal, the highly seasoned sum 
 mary of a day's events, a kind of highly flavored 
 hors cTceuvre to tickle the morning's jaded palates. 
 One saw in its sprawling, loosely-knitted headlines 
 the usual artful, ingenious effort to alarm the idle 
 eye into interest; the usual frantic, appealing 
 struggle to idealize the commonplace, amusing for 
 all its vulgarity, interesting even in its ignorance. 
 To-day, with its astonishing type and its highly en 
 tertaining and utterly improbable pictures, it was 
 just as entertaining and improbable as it had been 
 yesterday, and, by the same token, would be to-mor 
 row, and, without doubt, the day afterward. News 
 of all kinds was set forth; news instructive, amus 
 ing, dire ; a great deal of one, as much of the other, 
 and not less of the remainder. News of love, pas 
 sion, and greed ; news real, and news immaterial ; big 
 news and little news, tragedy and comedy ; news of the 
 living and news of the dead; all the news there was 
 was there; news that played its part in happiness 
 and grief; in comfort and despair. Corrie skimmed 
 through it all, vaguely entertained, and then, as she 
 folded the paper together, the caption in the upper 
 left-hand corner of the front page appealed to her. 
 
 159
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " PERSONAZ.." 
 
 Munching the last of her toast, she read carelessly, 
 her eye drifting down the column of advertisements. 
 They, too, were of the usual kind, the usual para 
 graphs vital, banal, appealing, delusive as the 
 case might be. There were the requests for some 
 one to return home and all would be forgiven; the 
 characteristic inquiries for missing persons; the ob 
 vious and everyday baits to trap the unwary ; the 
 artful, or, on the other hand, equally innocent allure 
 ments stamped with that ironclad guarantee of good 
 faith, " object, matrimony." Corrie read along, 
 lightly amazed that so many young and vivacious 
 widows, so many middle-aged gentlemen with means, 
 so many young and prosperous business men with 
 futures should find it necessary, with all their ad 
 vantages, to appeal so publicly for a mate. But there, 
 too, well on toward the column's end, a name caught 
 her eye, as she skipped along. Alertly she returned 
 to it and read; and as she read, the girl's heart 
 leaped suddenly in a convulsive bound, beat stridently 
 and sent the blood of excitement coursing through 
 her veins. 
 
 TOLLABEE Anyone knowing the present whereabouts of the 
 heir or heirs of Randolph Tpllabee, deceased, will be suitably 
 rewarded by communicating with Earnest, Box 112. 
 
 Corrie, with starting eyes, snatched up the news 
 paper. " Randolph Tollabee, deceased ! " The name 
 roared through her head as if the print were shouting 
 it vociferously. But what Randolph Tollabee, de 
 ceased? Was it but a coincidence of names; or was 
 
 160
 
 THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN 
 
 it, indeed, one and the same with the man whose life 
 seemed to be linked so closely, though so indefin 
 ably, with hers? A third time she read, and then 
 fluttering, excited, tensely strung, she let the paper 
 fall from her hands and arose unsteadily to her 
 feet. 
 
 For there had leaped into her mind impulsively the 
 thought that if this were the same Randolph Tolla- 
 bee, others must be told of it Phil, his mother, and 
 his uncle. Still impulsively she slipped into the pan 
 try where the house telephone hung on the wall be 
 side the dumbwaiter. With nervous, clumsy fingers, 
 she turned the pages of the subscribers' directory, 
 hunting for the " G's," "G for Geikie," she mur 
 mured hurriedly, her finger running down the list; 
 then, just as she had found it, Maggie came slouch 
 ing into the pantry. 
 
 "Ain't ye a goin' to eat yer coffee and toast?" 
 she demanded aggrievedly, " and me at all the bother 
 to git it for ye ? " 
 
 Distracted by the question, Corrie lost her place 
 in the directory. " G for Geikie. Yes, leave it on the 
 table in a minute," she answered, all absorbed. 
 Then, as Maggie withdrew, she found the number. 
 
 " Spring 9983 . . . Geikie, Philip, architect, 57 
 Hedge Street." 
 
 But just as Corrie reached up to take the receiver 
 off the hook, a step sounded on the stair. It was 
 Miss Maria's step, and she was heading for the din 
 ing room. Corrie slipped back into her place at the 
 table, and picked up her coffee cup. 
 11 161
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Good morning, Miss Maria," she said, and looked 
 around. 
 
 Miss Maria stared at her blankly. " Oh, good 
 morning," she answered, as if with an effort, and 
 then glanced covertly at the unfinished breakfast. 
 
 Corrie saw the look. " Maggie brought it to me 
 early," she explained. " Won't you let me share it 
 with you ? " Miss Maria screwed her mouth uncom 
 fortably, shook her head, and, as if about to say some 
 thing, folded her hands before her. But changing 
 her mind, apparently, she hunched up her shoulders 
 and affected to straighten out the silver on the buffet. 
 " Humph ! " Corrie heard her sniff, and then the force 
 of custom seemed to get the better of Miss Maria, 
 and she vented her feelings in something that, if 
 not uncomfortable, was at least not reassuring. 
 " Well, suit yourself. Have your breakfast when you 
 want, but Hunh ! Don't you know Mrs. Pinchin 's 
 coming down again this morning? " 
 
 Miss Maria drifted away into the front room 
 after that, and Corrie finished her breakfast immersed 
 in thought. Her first impulse to call the Geikies' 
 attention to the personal no longer seemed so im 
 perative. Should she tell them or not? What if 
 they thought her officious and presuming? Already, 
 in her innocence, she had ventured beyond the 
 bounds of propriety; to venture further would be 
 impossible. 
 
 Then came another thought. What, too, if Mrs. 
 Pinchin saw that advertisement? There was no 
 greater reason than suspicion to suggest either she 
 
 162
 
 THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN 
 
 or Miss Maria would be interested in the inquiry ; if 
 they were, what then? But how should Mrs. Pinchin 
 be made to see that graphic paragraph? One way 
 was for Corrie to point it out in person ; another was 
 to put the paper where Mrs. Pinchin's eagle eye 
 would detect it unaided. A flush mounted to Corrie's 
 face at the thought of such duplicity. Tossing the 
 paper away from her, she hurried out of the room, 
 and Maggie, coming in a few minutes later to set 
 the table, found it on the floor, and laid it at Mrs. 
 Pinchin's place. 
 
 It was an hour later when the mistress of the house 
 presented herself at the breakfast table. Sleep, even 
 with all its restoring touches, had not composed Mrs. 
 Pinchin's features to a peaceful restfulness. There 
 was a scowl in her dark, heavy-lidded eyes, a threat as 
 if the lady had not found the bright world of a spring 
 morning entirely to her liking. She lurched labor 
 iously to the breakfast table, and without waiting for 
 Corrie's aid, dragged out her chair with first a covert 
 stare at the girl and then a scowl of contempt for 
 the uneasy Miss Maria. 
 
 Again the pantomime of Mrs. Pinchin's morning 
 meal renewed itself. With her eyes rolling about the 
 room as if literally in search qf what she might 
 devour, she reached out her hand for her napkin and 
 encountered the folded newspaper. 
 
 Corrie, seeing it there, almost gasped aloud. But 
 Mrs. Pinchin, with a contemptuous flick of her hand, 
 tossed the paper aside, and flirting open her napkin 
 with a slap like the crack of a whip, spread the dam- 
 
 163
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 ask over the ample breast of her pink silk morning 
 sack. Then, as on the morning before, she began the 
 introductory comedy of snatching for the oranges, 
 selecting first one and then another until satisfied that 
 the best in the platter was hers. Maggie, passing on 
 ward, handed the fruit to Corrie, who silently shook 
 her head. When the oatmeal was passed, she refused 
 that also, and Mrs. Pinchin, chancing to look up 
 at the moment, instantly demanded explanation. 
 " What 's that now? " she rasped irritably, her spoon 
 suspended on its way to her waiting mouth, " why 
 ain't you eating? Anything wrong with the 
 oatmeal? " 
 
 Corrie answered : " No why, no. I 've break 
 fasted already ! " 
 
 *' Oh, you have, have you? " Concerned as Corrie 
 was with other matters, she had forgotten for the 
 moment Mrs. Pinchin's rule that none should eat 
 before her. " You mean to say," began Mrs. Pin- 
 chin, breaking off long enough to gulp the waiting 
 oatmeal, " you mean to say you 've been order 
 ing my " 
 
 The sentence, however it meant to convey her dis 
 pleasure, was for some reason abruptly cut short in 
 the middle. Some thought appeared to strike into 
 her mind, and her features, at the outset angry and 
 contemptuous, were suddenly smoothed into another 
 and much less bellicose expression. Indeed, it be 
 came almost obvious that Mrs. Pinchin, in that 
 moment's reflection, had instantly regretted her 
 threatening manner, and now was even trying, with 
 
 1G4
 
 THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN 
 
 a powerful effort, to organize an amiable smile. " Oh, 
 yes of course certainly. You must have your 
 breakfast when you want it. Yes, indeed! Pass the 
 cream, Maggie." 
 
 Perhaps, in that moment of thought, Mrs. Pinchin 
 recalled her promises of the night before; the deci 
 sion to show Corrie the consideration that so long 
 had been denied her ; and, with another gallus, loose- 
 jawed grin, another vital effort to look genial and 
 conciliatory, Mrs. Pinchin returned to her oatmeal. 
 
 Beside her the newspaper still lay unheeded. 
 Breathing and gulping, smacking her lips in enjoy 
 ment, she made way with the cereal, and then set to 
 work as assiduously on a generous portion of sauted 
 liver and bacon attended by creamed potatoes. As 
 usual, she plied into this with every evidence of cor 
 dial satisfaction, in the midst of which she looked up 
 abruptly, with a grunt alarming in its loudness, and 
 grinned in Corrie's face. 
 
 " Hunh ! I ran across that fellow Alfuente yester 
 day. What do you suppose he said to me? " 
 
 Mr. Alfuente, as it may be remembered, was the 
 lean, oily musician of Mrs. Pinchin's drawing-room 
 who had tried his blandishments on Corrie. The girl 
 heard his name with unconcern. 
 
 " Yes," drawled Mrs. Pinchin, running her tongue 
 around between her lips and her teeth, " what do 
 you suppose ? " She darted another look at Corrie, 
 and broke into a thick, gurgling chuckle. " He 'd 
 got it into his head you were my daughter." She 
 blinked humorously as she made this revelation. 
 
 165
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Yes, and he 's dead set on giving you music lessons. 
 He said he would n't charge anything, either j ust 
 for art's sake, you know. I guess you must have 
 made an impression on him." 
 
 Corrie frowned openly, but made no answer, and 
 Mrs. Pinchin still rattled gaily on, buoyant and con 
 fident, as if fully aware of her own condescension. 
 " Not such a bad idea, do you think ? I told him he 
 might call around some time, and we 'd talk it over." 
 
 Pancakes arrived at this moment and distracted 
 Mrs. Pinchin's attention ; and absorbed in her new 
 trencher work, she became too busy to say more. 
 Corrie, her chin in her hand, pored intently on her. 
 She was not so young, not so easily to be deluded by 
 any such forced effort at geniality ; and while she 
 watched, her brain was busy wondering how long 
 Mrs. Pinchin would waste her time with the artifice 
 of good nature, once she saw the advertisement. 
 Though conscious that Miss Maria was intently 
 watching her during her own study of Mrs. Pinchin, 
 Corrie gave no heed to the sly scrutiny. Nor was 
 she even much affected by a memory of those imperti 
 nent comments, Mrs. Pinchin's jocose and offensive 
 reflection about Mr. Alfuente and why he wished to 
 give Corrie music lessons. Tensely absorbed, the girl 
 waited the moment when Mrs. Pinchin's eye should 
 fall on that important paragraph; though there 
 were moments too, when, in her agitation, she could 
 have leaped up, snatched away the paper, and thrown 
 it into the blazing grate. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin, intent on striking an exact balance 
 166
 
 THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN 
 
 between the last morsel of pancake and the final drop 
 of syrup, had buried her eyes in her plate. With a 
 dexterous knife she pursued the elusive, surviving 
 trickle to its last stand; with an implacable, merci 
 less fork she impaled the hunted tidbit. Already that 
 last votive offering to her appetite had been raised 
 toward her mouth. A moment more and it would 
 have passed, sacrificed, from view, when Mrs. Pinchin 
 halted suddenly in the ceremonial, and as suddenly 
 broke into speech. " Order the carriage for ten," 
 said she, bolted the mouthful, and, with a clatter of 
 knife and fork, switched back in her chair and ad 
 dressed Corrie. " How 'd you like a carriage ride? 
 You can come along, too." 
 
 To ride in Mrs. Pinchin's carriage, if Mrs. Pin- 
 chin were in it, was a signal mark of that lady's favor 
 and high opinion. It was so much one, indeed, that 
 Corrie had rarely enj oyed it not in the least, per 
 haps, that it meant a real enjoyment, but rather 
 the contrary. For on these occasions, rare as they 
 were, when Corrie took the air in Mrs. Pinchin's 
 equipage, she was never allowed to share the width 
 and comfort of the cushiony back seat on which Mrs. 
 Pinchin lolled in ease and dignity. Instead, she was 
 perched uncomfortably on a small, awkward, stool-like 
 arrangement in front, which, when it was not in use, 
 was folded up under the forebody of the brougham. 
 To add to this discomfort, the girl, on these occa 
 sions, was made still further miserable by Mrs. 
 Pinchin's continual and petulant warning " keep your 
 feet away " " move over there " " stop nudging 
 
 167
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 into me." For in her carriage, as elsewhere, Mrs. 
 Pinchin was jealous of her comfort, and, after all, 
 why should n't she have been ? Was she, for even a 
 moment, to be made irritable and uncomfortable by 
 one who was hired to insure her comfort? Certainly 
 not. 
 
 But at Mrs. Pinchin's invitation to Corrie, Miss 
 Maria raised her eyes in alarm. " But you promised 
 me you promised " began Miss Maria, in 
 tensely concerned and excited. Mrs. Pinchin cut her 
 short. 
 
 " Nonsense ! I promised nothing of the kind." 
 She knitted her shaggy brows together at Miss 
 Maria, as if trying to bully her into silence ; but for 
 the moment Miss Maria was not to be bullied. 
 
 " If you don't, I '11 go alone ! " she cried, with 
 a new and altogether astonishing determination. 
 " You 've got to take me, or I will." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin made no answer. Rolling her nap 
 kin into a ball, she tossed it on the table and pushed 
 back her chair, and Miss Maria, with her eyes still 
 flashing determinedly, followed suit. But while Mrs. 
 Pinchin was reaching around for her stick, her glance 
 encountered the folded newspaper. " I 'm going ! 
 do you hear?" spoke Miss Maria, convincingly; 
 and Mrs. Pinchin picked up the newspaper, and stick 
 ing it under her arm, put it down again and stared 
 at her darkly. 
 
 " You '11 do nothing of the kind," she said in a slow, 
 minatory voice. Rolling her head from side to side, 
 as if to give emphasis to her words, she fastened her 
 
 168
 
 THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN 
 
 eyes threateningly on the other. Miss Maria clasped 
 her hands together, and, unmindful of Corrie, cried 
 out piteously. 
 
 " Oh, Judie, Judie L " she almost wailed. " Judie, 
 if you don't take me, I '11 go out of my head." 
 
 " Keep your tongue still ! Do you hear me ? I 've 
 had enough of that now." 
 
 Miss Maria, with another appealing look, bit her 
 lip and seemed ready to burst into tears. " You '11 
 break my heart," she began, faltering, when 
 Mrs. Pinchin stilled her with a sharp and angry 
 exclamation. 
 
 " You look at here now ! If you " 
 
 A thick grunt of disdain broke off the unfinished 
 sentence, and contemptuously again Mrs. Pinchin 
 scowled at her relation. Miss Maria said no more, 
 and, as if assured that the scene had ended, Mrs. 
 Pinchin flicked the crumbs from her skirt, reached 
 around for her cane, and then let her eyes again 
 drift casually toward the newspaper. 
 
 " Come, if you 're ready," she was saying, when 
 the words were arrested. " Come, if you 're ready, 
 we '11 " 
 
 That was all. She set down the cane against the 
 side of her chair, pored intently at the newspaper a 
 moment, and then reached out her hand for the glass 
 of water before her. Holding it to her mouth, her 
 eyes still fastened on the print, she read and drank 
 together. Quietly then the glass was removed from 
 her lips ; she set it on the table and as quietly leaned 
 forward. A tense moment followed. Corrie, ready 
 
 169
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 to cry aloud, could have snatched the paper from her 
 hand, but Corrie, instead, sat breathless. Watching 
 intently, she saw the heavy-lidded eyes flicker mo 
 mentarily. Mrs. Pinchin's throat convulsed itself an 
 instant as if in the reflex of swallowing something; 
 then over Mrs. Pinchin's sallow, profoundly heavy 
 face there crept a ghastly, leprous whiteness. A 
 deep breath, like a sigh, escaped her. Working her 
 lips as if her tongue suddenly had become feverishly 
 dry, she reached for the glass of water once more, 
 and raised it hazardously to her mouth. All the 
 while her eyes were kept riveted on the print; she 
 read, replaced the glass on the table, widened her 
 nostril in another stifled gasp, and then slowly, ma 
 jestically, terribly, she raised her head and stared 
 about her like an offended, tragic Medea. 
 
 What storm spent its turmoil within the recesses of 
 Mrs. Pinchin's brain, only she could know ; yet fierce 
 as it must have been, and frightful, as the convulsion 
 of her face clearly showed, the struggle to control 
 was greater, more masterful, even almost noble. For 
 all the hurricane forces of her emotion swept by 
 soundlessly, betrayed by no other sign than the mo 
 mentary pallor, the instant's disorder of her fea 
 tures, the brief working of her jaws. Quietly she 
 turned to Corrie and spoke, and only a slight 
 thickness of her voice showed the emotion that even 
 then must have tugged at her heart strings. 
 
 " The smelling-salts on my bureau I want 
 them." 
 
 Dominant, imperious, masterful, all the old self- 
 170
 
 THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN 
 
 control regained again. " Hurry ! " she ordered 
 roughly. 
 
 Corrie, on trembling feet, made her way to the 
 door. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mrs. 
 Pinchin lean forward across the table and silently 
 push the paper into Miss Maria's hand. Miss Maria 
 took it, amazed and disconcerted. " Why, what is 
 it? Why " 
 
 " Look at it there! " rumbled Mrs. Pinchin, 
 hollowly. 
 
 Then, when Corrie was half-way up the stair, the 
 climax came. " God ! " said a profound, quivering 
 voice, thickly wheezing, choked with crowded emo 
 tion, " God " After that there was silence. 
 
 The smelling-salts were not on the bureau, as Mrs. 
 Pinchin had said, and it was only after a long 
 search that Corrie found the vial under the bed pil 
 lows. Yet once she had found what she hunted for, 
 Corrie's hurried activities came to a sudden end. As 
 she turned to go back to the dining room the pier 
 glass beside the window flashed at her the vision of 
 her pale and frightened self; and all the more terri 
 fied at the sight of it, she shrank back and stared at 
 herself questioningly. What now? For now that the 
 dramatic, vitally tragic situation had been brought 
 about now that she had witnessed the tumult it had 
 made she dared hardly return to the scene. But 
 while she halted, debating wildly, a cry, fierce and 
 authoritative, rang through the house. " Quick 
 come here help me ! " A moment later another 
 
 cry followed. " Oh " Then, as if in emphasis, 
 
 171
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 there was a clink of breaking glassware, a louder and 
 more prolonged crash, and a muffled thud as of a 
 heavy weight fallen to the floor. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin it was she! Rushing from the 
 room, Corrie sped down the stairs, a hand on the 
 balusters to support her; and wild with consterna 
 tion and regret, almost palsied by her terror, she 
 reached the floor below. Mrs. Pinchin ! Had the 
 promised stroke fallen at last ? and had Corrie been 
 virtually the cause of it? 
 
 But there in the doorway of the dining room stood 
 Mrs. Pinchin herself Mrs. Pinchin still among the 
 living. She had forsaken her stick in this moment of 
 fierce and impelling distraction, and with her face 
 flaming and her body rigidly erect, she towered be 
 side the doorway, one hand outstretched to snatch 
 the smelling-salts from Corrie. " Quick ! raise her 
 up ! " she commanded hoarsely, and with another 
 forceful gesture, pointed to the floor beside the 
 table. 
 
 There lay a loose and formless figure, a shape 
 huddled within itself inertly and half concealed 
 beneath the drapery of the table cover. The cloth, 
 dragged with the figure in its fall, had sluiced down 
 upon the floor a torrent of glass, chinaware, and sil 
 ver ; a chair had toppled over, too, and on the edge 
 of all this confusion, her mouth open in silly dismay, 
 her hands raised in terror, stood Maggie the waitress, 
 ready at the word to break into a chorus of screams. 
 For the huddled figure that lay on the floor was 
 Miss Maria's. The shock, whatever it had been, had 
 
 172
 
 THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN 
 
 passed by the stalwart, capable Mrs. Pinchin, and 
 had wreaked all its potent forces on the weaker vessel 
 of the two. Maggie, unable to restrain her excite 
 ment, essayed an experimental yell. " Go clear 
 out ! " interposed Mrs. Pinchin in a voice of rage. 
 " Get away from here ! " Maggie, all the more as 
 tounded, fled to the pantry, and Corrie fell on her 
 knees beside Miss Maria. 
 
 Even in that moment of her own high emotion, the 
 girl felt a small, aching pity for the forlorn woman 
 who lay there senseless. Poor Miss Maria! There 
 had been moments when she had shown almost kind 
 ness to Corrie, and the girl was not one readily to 
 forget a thing like that. Filled with instant compas 
 sion, dismayed, all her presence of mind departing, 
 she strove awkwardly to loosen the throat of Miss 
 Maria's dress ; then she crouched back and vainly 
 wrung her hands. " Oh oh ! " she cried, horri 
 fied, and once more tried to tear apart the prostrate 
 woman's stiff linen collar. " Oh, what shall I do ? " 
 
 It was at this point that all the determination of 
 Mrs. Pinchin's character asserted itself, the able, 
 resolute firmness that could display its force even in a 
 moment as overwhelming as this. " Raise her head ! " 
 she directed energetically ; " now open her collar 
 tear it loose ! " she commanded, and Corrie, exerting 
 all her strength, tore it open. With clumsy, unable 
 fingers she managed somehow, under Mrs. Pinchin's 
 fierce dictation, to unbutton the breast of Miss Ma 
 ria's waist, and there, as the dress was thrown apart, 
 the girl's fingers encountered a gold medallion strung 
 
 173
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 on a ribbon from Miss Maria's lean and unlovely 
 throat. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin's alert eye caught the glint of gold; 
 with unexpected quickness she leaned down, and, shov 
 ing Corrie's hands away, snatched at the ribbon. 
 " What 's this ? " she questioned under her breath, 
 and with a vigorous tug, broke the fastening. But 
 in that moment the girl, watching shrewdly, had 
 caught a full glimpse of the medallion's obverse side. 
 It held within its setting a miniature painted on 
 ivory, the face of a young man, handsome, self- 
 assured, and with an expression in the quiet eyes al 
 most of contemptuous disdain. It was a face known 
 and familiar, and though much younger in this like 
 ness than the original of to-day, there was no mis 
 taking the identity. 
 
 In other words, Miss Maria wore at her throat the 
 portrait of Mrs. Pinchin's familiar and curious guest, 
 the nonchalant Mr. Stanton. 
 
 " Well, ' Mrs. Pinchin, with her eyes flick 
 ering in an instant's astonishment, stared at the min 
 iature, and then thrust it into the capacious pocket 
 of her skirt. A lurking grin of contempt contorted 
 her lips for the instant, and then resuming her di 
 rections hurriedly, she held out the vial of smelling- 
 salts. 
 
 "Here, put this to her nose!" she ordered 
 roughly. " Give her a good sniff no, not that 
 way! Hold it there till she feels it! There! 
 that 's it ! " 
 
 Under the heroic treatment Miss Maria's hands 
 174
 
 THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN 
 
 presently began to flutter wildly. She sighed, her 
 huddled limbs outstretched themselves, she breathed 
 a deep gasp, and then her eyelids quivered like 
 stricken wings. But the moment the pale eyes opened 
 to awakened sense Miss Maria stared at Mrs. Pin- 
 chin, and with clawlike hands began clutching at Mrs. 
 Pinchin's knees. " Oh, Judie oh, my God, Judie ! " 
 she wailed, oblivious of the girl who supported her; 
 " oh, what are we going to do ! What are we going 
 to do!" 
 
 " Hush ! " cried Mrs. Pinchin, stridently, beating 
 down the fingers that clawed at her. She laid a swift 
 hand on Miss Maria's mouth, quelling the words that 
 still flocked to her lips. " Here get on your feet ! " 
 ordered Mrs. Pinchin, in a determined voice. She 
 leaned down, and aided by Corrie, dragged the limp 
 and sobbing woman to an upright position. " Come 
 now, control yourself," she rasped irritably. " How 
 long are you going to keep on acting like a fool? " 
 
 Miss Maria obeyed to the extent of standing on 
 her feet, and then leaning on Corrie, was guided to 
 the nearest chair. But she had no sooner fallen into 
 this seat when the stress of all she had undergone 
 again became too great for self-control. Burying 
 her face in her hands, she rocked to and fro. " Oh, 
 Judie, Judie oh what " 
 
 " Silence ! " roared Mrs. Pinchin, furiously. 
 
 In her room, a half hour later, Corrie closed the 
 door behind her, and almost as if in terror, she laid a 
 hand over her own fluttering heart. Once more she 
 asked herself the oft-repeated question: What was 
 
 175
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 to be done? This time the thought brought its 
 own swift decision. To live there longer, to remain 
 in that house hedged around by the unknown, to stay 
 amid all that crowding mystery seemed intolerable. 
 It could last no longer. The time had come now 
 when Mrs. Pinchin should no longer dominate her 
 life bend her submissively to every caprice of her 
 never-ending bullying and greediness. The girl had 
 no plans for the future, and as for money itself 
 Yes, Mrs. Pinchin had paid her a salary, a regular 
 stipend, a monthly indebtedness discharged largely 
 in figures of speech. " Money? What do you need 
 of money, a girl like you ? Have n't I told you it 's 
 been put by in the bank? " Corrie had never been 
 able to learn when this bank deposit would become 
 hers in fact, rather than in fiction ; nor had she ever 
 discovered from Mrs. Pinchin's vague references the 
 exact whereabouts of the bank. But now, fully de 
 termined, she would insist on Mrs. Pinchin giving her 
 the money she had earned, and with that in hand, and 
 with the sublime confidence of youth, good health, and 
 buoyant mind, she felt sure that even in that striving, 
 thoughtless, big, and selfish city, whose life heaved 
 so close at hand like the billows of a sea, she could 
 keep her head afloat. She would do it willy nilly, 
 money or no. 
 
 So now! Turning abruptly, she locked the door 
 and began spreading out her possessions on the bed. 
 In the moment's sudden determination she had for 
 gotten all else even her promise of the night be 
 fore, the self-made promise that she would stay with 
 
 176
 
 THE ITEM IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin until she had learned the secret of her 
 birth. Then, in the midst of her hurried labors, 
 a knock sounded on the door. 
 
 " Please, miss," said Maggie the waitress, " ye 're 
 wanted at the phoone. He '11 be in a hurry, too, by 
 the voice of him." 
 
 12 177
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 The appointment. Corrie tries to escape. Mrs. Pinchin's 
 wrath and her ugly warning. Mr. Stanton reappears. 
 Mrs. Pinchin's alarm concerning her papers. The escape. 
 Central Park in the early morning. The Tollabees, 
 Uncle Stanwood, Mrs. Pinchin et al. The rustic bridge 
 and what happened thereon. Young love almost has its 
 way. 
 
 closed her door and followed Maggie 
 down the stairs. 
 
 " Who is it at the telephone? " she asked anxiously, 
 at the same time flushing consciously with the 
 knowledge that she need hardly ask that question. 
 
 " Sure, and how would I know? " answered Maggie, 
 unaffectedly. " I did n't think to ask your friend 
 his name." 
 
 Hurrying into the pantry, Corrie picked up the 
 receiver. " Yes, who is it ? " she asked in a re 
 strained voice; then over the wire came the reply. 
 
 " Good morning. I knew you could n't guess. It 
 is I Phil Geikie." 
 
 Though Corrie's back was turned, she was aware 
 subconsciously that Maggie had planted herself a 
 few feet away, and was listening with every evidence 
 of an amiable and knowing satisfaction. Yet it was 
 not altogether due to this that the flush crept into 
 Corrie's face anew, or that her reply was broken and 
 disj ointed. 
 
 178
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 Oh, yes why, of course it 's I mean 
 
 Corrie, with an effort, composed herself, though she 
 still fluttered inwardly. " Good morning. Will you 
 wait just a moment? " The tell-tale flush still 
 mantled her face and neck rosily as she turned around 
 to the maid. " Maggie, I want you to go down 
 stairs at once," she directed in a firm voice. " What 
 I have to say over the telephone is very private. 
 Go ! " she bade her. 
 
 " Owh! and was it that he 's a telling ye? " ex 
 claimed Maggie, with a wondering air of the utmost 
 meaning. " And over the phone ! " A wide grin 
 stretched itself over Maggie's face as she withdrew 
 regretfully. 
 
 " Mercy ! " cried the voice over the wire, " I was 
 afraid, for a moment, from your tone of voice, that 
 you meant me ! " Then after this sally he became 
 suddenly grave. " Tell me," he asked quickly, " have 
 you seen this morning's newspapers ? There 's an 
 advertisement that will interest you." 
 
 Corrie cut in abruptly. " You mean about those 
 people ? " She dared not mention the name aloud for 
 fear that someone might overhear. But Phil under 
 stood. " Yes yes, I 've seen it ! " she answered 
 hurriedly, " do you know what it means ? They 've 
 seen it, too." 
 
 " Not Mrs. Pinchin ! " buzzed the telephone, hum 
 ming with the intensity of the voice at the other end 
 of the wire. " Do you mean her? What happened? " 
 
 But to tell him all that with the chance of Mrs. 
 Pinchin herself overhearing how her curious conduct 
 
 179
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 was regarded by another seemed too great a risk to 
 take. " I can't speak of it now you must wait 
 when I see you again," she responded nervously. 
 " It was a great deal that happened almost 
 dreadful. It was dreadful ! " 
 
 " Dreadful ! " she heard him repeat in a concerned 
 voice. " Do you mean for yourself? You must tell 
 me ! " he insisted. 
 
 On the floor above, a slow and limping footfall 
 plodded about, the glassware on the pantry shelves 
 tinkling in time to the precision of that ponderous 
 tread. Corrie thought the heavy feet headed for the 
 stairway, as if Mrs. Pinchin by instinct, divination, 
 a super sense, had awakened to what was going on on 
 the floor below her. " Listen I cannot tell you 
 now ! " cried the girl, rapidly, " if I could When 
 I see you again. Not now, but the next time we 
 meet." 
 
 " That 's the very thing I want ! " came the instant 
 rej oinder. " I want to see you. I must and 
 to-day ! " 
 
 Corrie was about to utter a nervous objection 
 when he interrupted her, clearly determined. " No ! 
 no, no ! " she began ; but apparently he was not to 
 be deterred. 
 
 " Yes, you must. I 'm going uptown at once to 
 see you. Do you understand ? I 'm going straight 
 to the Park entrance at Seventy-second Street, and 
 I '11 be there wait, let me look at my watch I '11 
 be there waiting for you in twenty-five minutes. Can 
 you hear me? at five minutes after ten." 
 
 180
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 A faintly murmured yes went over the wire, half 
 heard at the other end, yet still clearly understood. 
 
 "You'll surely be there, won't you? Be 
 cause " 
 
 But blushing hotly, waiting to hear no more, Corrie 
 hurriedly hung the receiver on the hook and fled. 
 And not any too soon, it appeared; for as Corrie 
 reached the dining-room door she heard the limping 
 footfall above renew itself, and now, in verity, it 
 sounded on the stairs. Slowly, majestically, as de 
 termined as ever, Mrs. Pinchin descended, her slow 
 eyes burning with a suppressed yet vital fire, her 
 jaw squared, and decision written in every line of 
 her grim and iron features. She and the girl met 
 in the hallway, Mrs. Pinchin repressed and master 
 ful, Corrie fearful and guiltily embarrassed. 
 
 " You ordered my carriage for ten ? " inquired Mrs. 
 Pinchin with an inflection that suggested no possible 
 doubt. 
 
 Corrie in confusion remembered she had forgotten. 
 " Oh why, no ! " she stammered. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin's eyes slowly fastened on hers. " You 
 forgot? Didn't I instruct you to do it?" she de 
 manded harshly. " Look here now ; what 's gotten 
 into you lately ? " 
 
 Then Corrie's dignity came to her aid. " Nothing 
 has gotten into me, Mrs. Pinchin," she answered 
 quietly. " I forgot that is all." 
 
 Then at the girl's steadfast look, the dull, heavy- 
 lidded eyes shifted, and Mrs. Pinchin drew in her 
 breath, a sigh almost of weariness. " Well, call up 
 
 181
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 the stable now," she said in an altered tone, as if 
 tired of contention, and willing to sue for peace at 
 any cost. " Remember, please, you 're to go with me. 
 Don't forget that." 
 
 An objection leaped to Corrie's lips; she remem 
 bered whom she had promised to meet at the Park 
 entrance. " But I " she had begun, when Mrs. 
 Pinchin wheeled on her ponderously. 
 
 " But you well what? " 
 
 Corrie, without answering, walked through the 
 dining room, and on into the pantry. There seemed 
 little to be gained in rekindling the latent flame in 
 the breast of that grim and moody personage, to re 
 kindle the tinder of her wrath. Yet the moment was 
 only delayed ; for Corrie, with a new and greater rea 
 son than all others to encourage her, had decided to 
 dispute Mrs. Pinchin's power. No, she would not 
 drive with her to-day perhaps she would never 
 drive with her again. Down the hall she heard the 
 door close noisily as Mrs. Pinchin mured herself in 
 her den, and then the house relapsed into its accus 
 tomed stillness. But, as Corrie climbed the stairs to 
 her room, another sound reached her ears in that 
 quietness, a sound that warned her the climax of the 
 morning's tragic circumstance still worked its effect. 
 Miss Maria's door was closed, yet from within came 
 a thin and small, keen, gagging whisper, a sobbing 
 insistently fearful as of a child crying its terror of 
 the dark. 
 
 It was Miss Maria who wept, choking, as if she 
 strove to silence herself. 
 
 182
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 Once she regained her room, a glance at the clock 
 warned Corrie she would have no time for her inter 
 rupted packing. In less than a half hour she must 
 be at the Park entrance, and at the thought of it, 
 with a girlish consciousness, she glanced at herself 
 swiftly in the mirror. The glance, brief as it was, 
 awakened other glances directed at herself, a crit 
 ical survey of her appearance. They were almost 
 unhappy, dissatisfied glances, too, and with a sigh, 
 she looked toward the wardrobe, realizing it held 
 nothing better to wear than the dress she was then 
 arrayed in. But Corrie was not one long to nurse 
 discontent for something that could not be bettered, 
 and a moment later, with her accustomed animation, 
 she was making ready for the street. 
 
 Downstairs in the hall, the tall, garish wall clock 
 sounded its peal of chimes a quarter of ten time 
 to be flitting now. Straightening her hat before the 
 glass, she picked up her j acket, and once more as on 
 the day before, tiptoed to the stairs. Below, the 
 house maintained its quiet ; there was no longer even 
 that whisper of sobbing from the room below; and 
 the only sound the girl could detect was from outside 
 the distant, deadened murmur of the city's street 
 noises, echoing like the voice of a never stilled sea. 
 But as Corrie leaned over the balustrade, waiting to 
 make sure, her brows drew together in a sudden little 
 frown. Why should she go like this, stealthy and 
 creeping and what would he think of her as if 
 she were a thief in the night? In that moment's re 
 flection it seemed to her there had been too many of 
 
 183
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 these undignified exits too much of this crafti 
 ness. Shame touched her face with its flaming finger, 
 and nerved by that stress of self-scorn, she tucked 
 her jacket firmly under her arm, and thereupon 
 marched down the broad stairway of Mrs. Pinchin's 
 with all the majesty and determination Mrs. Pinchin 
 herself might have assumed. Past Miss Maria's 
 door she tramped, down the last flight to the drawing- 
 room floor and with her head held proudly erect, 
 Corrie was advancing toward the street door when 
 there arose directly in her path, the massive, porten 
 tous bulk of the very one whom the girl had meant 
 to defy. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin had come noiselessly out of her secret 
 closet. Under one arm was tucked a portly bundle 
 of documents tied around with tape, and at the sight 
 of Corrie, she made an involuntary movement, as if 
 to retreat within the room ; then changing her mind, 
 she advanced along the hallway, her eyes fixed dis 
 trustfully on her companion. " Where are you go 
 ing? The carriage is n't ready yet," she said, her 
 thick brows meeting in her frown. 
 
 " No, I know," answered Corrie. " I 'm going out 
 for a moment, though." 
 
 Through many years of persistent oppression, 
 Mrs. Pinchin had unconsciously done her best to in 
 struct Corrie in all the arts of evasion, concealment, 
 deceit. But one would have thought now that Corrie 
 had profited little by the lessons; for at the very 
 moment when deceit would have proved of the best ad 
 vantage to the pupil, Corrie faced her able instruc- 
 
 184
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 tor with the truth. " I 'm going out," she said, and 
 perhaps there was a reason why Mrs. Pinchin should 
 show her immediate astonishment. 
 
 " You 're going out? " she repeated. " What are 
 you going out for? And who told you, now, you 
 could go ? " 
 
 " No one told me. I am going out on an errand 
 for myself." 
 
 " An errand for yourself? " There was a sing 
 song cadence of mockery in Mrs. Pinchin's voice that 
 denoted the wrath rising apace with her contempt. 
 " What kind of an errand for yourself? " 
 
 Corrie moved as if to pass Mrs. Pinchin without 
 further parleying. But there was an explanation 
 still to be made, and Mrs. Pinchin showed no willing 
 ness to forego it. " Stop ! " she said in a low warn 
 ing voice, and with that planted her cane against 
 the wall to bar Corrie's way. " Stop ! Now let 's 
 have an explanation of these doings." 
 
 " I tell you I have an errand, Mrs. Pinchin," said 
 Corrie, her eyes unwavering, though her face had 
 blanched. " I '11 return in a few minutes." 
 
 " You '11 return in a few minutes," mimicked Mrs. 
 Pinchin, baring her teeth. " You '11 do nothing of 
 the kind. You '11 go to your room and stay until I 
 see fit to send for you." In fierce emphasis of the 
 words she wagged her head from side to side, and fol 
 lowed this with a commanding gesture of her stick. 
 " Come do as I tell you. What are you gap 
 ing at?" 
 
 " At you ! " cried Corrie, sharply and swiftly. 
 185
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Last night you promised to treat me as I should 
 be treated as I insist I shall be treated, Mrs. Pin- 
 chin. I am no longer a child, I tell you. You shall 
 not keep me in this house as if I were a prisoner! 
 Now please let me get by." 
 
 "Oh! so that's it, is it?" answered Mrs. Pin- 
 chin in an even, regulated voice. She leaned back a 
 little as if better to inspect the girl; and then with 
 a sudden access of anger, all the pent-up, raging, 
 hidden emotion in her soul, the repressed and tragic 
 passion that stirred her, flashed up into Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's face, and she turned on Corrie flaming as with 
 the signal of open war. 
 
 " Stop ! " Mrs. Pinchin in emphasis prodded the 
 wall with her cane. " You dare defy me like that ? " 
 she cried in a voice shrilly tense with wrath. " You 
 think to ride me down huh ! a chit like you ? 
 Oh ! " she cried, " you think that because I gave you 
 a bit of soft soap last night because I tried to make 
 it easier for you yes, and for me! you think you 
 can gallop over me rough shod. Do you know why I 
 was kind to you ? why I truckled with you, and 
 begged you to stay here and be happy and con 
 tented and satisfied? No oh, no you don't! 
 You thought it was because I was frightened that 
 maybe there was something I was trying to hide. 
 Yes and that 's what I get for bothering my head 
 about you. Oh, go ahead, Miss Sly Boots! Snoop 
 around and prowl and find out what you like. But 
 when you 've found out, don't you come crying back 
 to me. No, don't you dare, for I '11 have washed my 
 
 186
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 hands of you then. But you mark my words ! " She 
 leaned toward the quivering girl, and wagged a thick, 
 bony finger in her face. " You mark my words ! 
 When you 've found out what you 're trying to 
 learn, you '11 wish to go and hide your head in 
 darkness ! You '11 wish you never lived to see the 
 day!" 
 
 As the last words quit her lips, Mrs. Pinchin drew 
 in her breath with a strong, gasping sigh, again al 
 most of the thickness of a sob ; and all her shrewlike 
 rage seeming to drain itself away, she leaned back 
 and stared at Corrie solemnly, almost with absorb 
 ing pity. 
 
 " Come, you must go to your room, child," she 
 murmured, quieted as if by her weariness of the dis 
 pute ; " you are too young to understand a thing like 
 this. But some day it will be clear to you. Come 
 obey me now ! " 
 
 There was a hidden significance in the words so 
 urgent and even appealing that Corrie was almost 
 shocked into obedience. For what was it that Mrs. 
 Pinchin strove to conceal? In her tone was a depth 
 of regret and trying sadness Corrie had never heard 
 before as if she strove painfully, not for herself, 
 but, instead, for one who seemed determined to plunge 
 on wilfully into the abyss from which she was trying 
 so hard to save her. The girl shook with a quick, 
 returning dread. Was it a warning that some un 
 spoken blight lay behind the secret that wrapped her 
 life in mystery? Yet why should she fear even that? 
 If indeed so, was the shame hers? Mrs. Pinchin no 
 
 187
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 doubt read the struggle going on in Corrie's mind, 
 for she hastened to follow up her advantage. 
 
 " Some day you. shall understand ; it shall be clear 
 to you then. But now, my girl, now be careful ! 
 be very careful ! Be guided by me, and in the end, 
 it shall be all right yes perhaps." 
 
 The veiled meaning stung the girl into speech. 
 " It shall never be all right till I know! " she cried 
 miserably. " You say some day I shall. Then tell 
 me now, Mrs. Pinchin tell me ! I can gain nothing 
 by waiting." She paused and gazed intently at the 
 dark, brooding face as if trying to read the secret 
 there, and then she shook her head. " No, I see you 
 have no intention of telling me. Is it because you 
 dare not tell me the truth? Is it because you dare 
 not for my sake or is it, tell me, because you dare 
 not for for your own sake? Tell me that, Mrs. 
 Pinchin." 
 
 A sharp twinge, as if of pain, convulsed Mrs. 
 Pinchin's face. She drew in her breath sharply, sigh 
 ing as if she had been struck a vital blow. " Oh ! " 
 she gasped, her face distorted, " oh " 
 
 But whether it was sorrow or wrath that moved 
 her, Corrie was not to learn. A noise at the door in 
 terrupted; someone stood in the vestibule, trying 
 to get in, and peering through the lace curtain drawn 
 across the glass. Then leaving the door, the person 
 sprang to the doorbell, and while the two stood watch 
 ing, he rang, and the lower regions of the house 
 were filled with the clamor of that signal, pro 
 longed, energetic, and imperative. 
 
 188
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 It was Mr. Stanton again. Mrs. Pinchin, forget 
 ful of all, even Corrie, seemed suddenly conscious of 
 the papers under her arm. Stooping laboriously, 
 she made an effort to shove them beneath the hall 
 settee, and this failing, she hobbled along the pas 
 sage as fast as her stick could aid her. " Stay where 
 you are ! " she ordered in a voice again filled with 
 forcible warning; and reaching her room, in a per 
 fect stampede of haste, she unlocked the door, tossed 
 the papers inside, helter-skelter, and turned the key 
 in the lock. Then she turned, just in time to head 
 off Maggie at the basement stairs. " Stay at your 
 work, girl. I '11 open the door." 
 
 Corrie, half way down the hall, still waited, non 
 plussed at Mrs. Pinchin's alarmed excitement. " If 
 you don't go to your room, I '11 " 
 
 The remainder of the sentence, obviously a warn 
 ing, was left unsaid, as Mrs. Pinchin turned the 
 doorknob in answer to another peal of the bell. In 
 stantly the door moved, Mr. Stanton showed himself, 
 his face lighting eagerly as he saw who let him in; 
 and before Mrs. Pinchin could restrain him, he began 
 energetically pouring out a string of questions. 
 Haste, or rather an un-Chesterfieldian hurry seemed 
 to have robbed Mr. Stanton of his usual nonchalance 
 and aplomb ; for once he was as unrepressed and 
 animated as the most vulgar of the vulgar herd. 
 " Have you seen it? Do you know what 's happened? 
 Has anyone told you ? " 
 
 " Hush ! " exclaimed Mrs. Pinchin. Clutching her 
 visitor by the sleeve, and with another sharp look at 
 
 189
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 the girl, she led Mr. Stanton into the seclusion of 
 the darkened drawing-room. A murmur of voices 
 followed, restrained yet filled with a tense excite 
 ment. The words were unintelligible, but Corrie made 
 no attempt to listen. She turned toward the stair, 
 as if, at the last, to obey ; then biting her lip, she 
 swung on her heel and went boldly down the hall. 
 No voice challenged from the drawing-room; the 
 murmur of talk went on unchecked ; and reaching the 
 door, she flung it open, and every moment expecting 
 to hear Mrs. Pinchin bellowing after her, sped 
 down to the street. There, heading toward the Park, 
 she hurried away, and a moment later, almost breath 
 lessly turned the corner. 
 
 In the words of Mr. Stanton, the bird, indeed, had 
 flitted had flown from its gilded nest ! 
 
 No one pursued. Crossing the broad avenue to 
 the walk beside the Park, she reduced her pace to a 
 more leisurely gait, her eyes fixed on the distant en 
 trance. Overhead, the spring sun had climbed to a 
 cloudless height, and the day momentarily grew 
 warmer and more alluring. Corrie drew in her 
 breath with a sigh of relief. Over the low parapet 
 that walls the Park, her eye wandered along the sweep 
 of broad lawns, brilliant in their vernal greens, and 
 rested on the mazes of shrubbery, now just beginning 
 to color with awakening life. An early May-day 
 party, crowding the season, romped along the nearest 
 turf, and the air was filled with the gay treble of 
 childish voices, shouting gleefully as they caught a 
 flash of silver where the lake revealed itself through 
 
 190
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 the lattice of budding twigs. A bridle path wound 
 among the trees beneath the hill, and, as Corrie 
 looked, a group of equestrians cantered into view; a 
 slender girl of Corrie's own age mounted on a tall, 
 upstanding bay, and two young men; one on a 
 square, broad-gaited cob, the other on a lean, racy 
 chestnut, whose coat gleamed silkily in the shafts of 
 light pouring through the arched branches above. 
 As the three reached the turn to the long, gentle 
 slope that leads up to the archway under the drive, 
 the girl gave her bay his head, and with a gay cry 
 and a challenging wave of her hand, dashed out in 
 the lead, her trim figure swaying itself to the long, 
 burning stride of her mount. Away they went, the 
 girl's laughter sounding above the scurry of hoofs, 
 the two lads following, each with his head bent over 
 his horse's neck and an arm upraised to shield off 
 the hail of loam thrown up by the slashing heels in 
 front. A mounted policeman at the crest raised a 
 reproving finger, and dragging down her mount to 
 an easy hand-canter the girl passed on out of sight, 
 an echo of her high-spirited merriment drifting 
 back long after she had disappeared from view. 
 
 Corrie gently sighed. A longing that she, too, 
 might share a little of such care-free, young and 
 wholesome existence stole like a shadow over her 
 heart a little pang of envy that was not to be 
 stilled. But j oy and freedom and the liberty of high 
 spirits had been denied to her as all else had been de 
 nied even as she had been denied a child's privilege 
 of childhood. There was no conscious self-pity in 
 
 191
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 the thought, only the growing pang of resentment 
 that so much had been taken from her. 
 
 There were few in the Park as yet, only the morn 
 ing's vanguard that later would swell into a glitter 
 ing, varied throng of idlers. Along the paths lagged 
 the inevitable mob of nursemaids and their charges, 
 or, choosing a sunny bench, they sat and gossiped 
 shrilly ; and mixed in among them were the other 
 early stragglers, the every-day assortment that drift 
 in of a morning ; the old and the young, the respect 
 able and the unclassed, the washed and the unwashed 
 a park crowd in all its incongruous makeup of 
 types and kinds and classes. There were the usual 
 early morning old gentlemen cheerfully taking the 
 prescribed constitutional, or sunning themselves on 
 the benches ; the usual procession of spring-time con 
 valescents, limping or led or wheeled along; the 
 usual array of night birds slouched down in their 
 seats, with one hazy eye cast slyly in the direction 
 of the nearest policeman. Then, too, there were the 
 habitual couples sheepishly conscious of themselves 
 and hurriedly seeking unfrequented nooks; the 
 wonted parade of spiritless men leading or being 
 led by their wives' more cherished pets poodles, 
 spaniels, black and tans, Yorkshires, Skyes and what 
 nots ; so forth and so on. One found them all in 
 that early morning crowd, and the procession that 
 flowed up and down the paths, and in and out at the 
 entrances was as variegated and picturesque in its 
 assembly, as absorbed and as absorbing, as only a 
 New York may provide. Along the driveways pa- 
 
 192
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 raded the other part of it; the buggies, runabouts, 
 tilburys, mailwagons and dogcarts; the Hempstead 
 carts with something horsey in the shafts ; the occa 
 sional brougham with its shutters down and the coach 
 man in undress whipcords or, if the shades were 
 up and its driver in livery, one saw something pam 
 pered lying back among the cushions and peevishly 
 braving the air. Motor cars of every known kind 
 and description roared their way in and out among 
 the other vehicles, nearly all bound southward to the 
 city, and then, as if the world were to omit nothing 
 from the display, came an occasional lone and soli 
 tary bicycle perilously threading its way among the 
 traffic. 
 
 As Corrie reached the Park entrance she halted a 
 moment and gazed expectantly down the broad 
 stretch of Seventy-second Street toward the Elevated, 
 where Columbus Avenue with its surface cars, its 
 wagons, and the sidewalks crowded with early morn 
 ing patrons of the shops, flowed past like the glimpse 
 of a lively stream. A train had just pulled in at the 
 uptown station, and already its passengers, reaching 
 the street, were beginning to disperse in different 
 directions. But neither among them nor among the 
 others heading for the Park was the tall, alert figure 
 she looked for. Realizing she was ahead of time, and 
 perhaps a little conscious of her eagerness, she 
 walked past the entrance without turning in, intend 
 ing to dawdle away the few remaining minutes before 
 he came. It may have been well that she did so 
 yet why? At all events, as she swung about to 
 13 193
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 retrace her steps, a light brougham drawn by a pair 
 of antique roans rattled across the car tracks in 
 front of the Park entrance, and hobbled away down 
 the drive. It was Mrs. Pinchin's carriage, and as 
 it flashed by in the distance, Corrie had an in 
 stant's view of a massive, stalwart frame reclining 
 among the cushions of a large, dark, heavy face 
 intently peering ahead. 
 
 The girl was still staring after this vision, when 
 she was aware of a young man in tweeds hurriedly 
 crossing the avenue. He, too, was staring after the 
 carriage, having seen who sat inside, but once the 
 carriage had disappeared he turned, and with a smile 
 came hurrying toward her. 
 
 " Have I kept you waiting? " he asked, his eyes 
 brightening with frank admiration as he looked at 
 her. " My ! " he exclaimed, " I 'm hardly able to 
 recognize you when you 're away from Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's. You look so different." 
 
 " Indeed ! " remarked Corrie, coloring faintly, 
 though not in the least displeased. 
 
 He caught the little flush, and at once became 
 humble. " Oh, please ! I hope you 're not vexed 
 with me? " He looked at her closely as if to make 
 sure she was n't, and Corrie frowned severely. " I 
 mean you 're dressed differently, and you have on 
 a hat. Then, besides, your hair is n't so oh, you 
 can go ahead and laugh, if you like. But it 's 
 true!" 
 
 " I 'm not laughing ! " protested Corrie, stoutly, 
 blushing again; "I was just wondering what else 
 
 194
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 you 'd discovered about me. Do all young men pay 
 such close attention to the young women they happen 
 to know? " 
 
 " Some do," he answered promptly and impres 
 sively ; " particularly when " 
 
 "When what?" demanded Corrie, unconsciously, 
 " when they have on a hat ? " 
 
 " Such a pretty hat," he corrected, glancing at 
 her toque. 
 
 " Just fancy ! Well, I made the hat myself. And 
 I made my dress, too, if you 'd like to know." 
 . " Perfectly splendid ! " he declared admiringly ; 
 though instead of looking at her dress, he stole 
 another glance at the girl's eyes and at her face, 
 sparkling with animation. " And I should say, too, 
 that you did up your own hair this morning, if 
 you '11 allow me." 
 
 " Mercy ! what 's wrong with it ? " exclaimed Cor 
 rie, hastily feeling whether any of the soft wisps had 
 fallen out of place. 
 
 " Wrong ! Why, on the contrary, I think it 's 
 just " 
 
 " Shall we go into the Park? " interrupted Corrie, 
 hurriedly. " It 's very nice in there in the morning. 
 I always take my walks here, alone usually, though 
 sometimes " 
 
 " Oh ! " inquiringly. 
 
 " Sometimes, Mr. Geikie, I wander here with 
 another," laughed Corrie, provokingly. " I rarely 
 lack company, you know." 
 
 " No, I suppose not ! " he responded without en- 
 195
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 thusiasm. " There are always a lot of lucky duffers 
 who can get off every morning, if they choose." 
 
 Corrie laughed at him openly. " You 'd better not 
 let Mrs. Pinchin or Miss Maria hear you say that," 
 she warned. " They might object to being termed 
 lucky duffers." 
 
 "Mrs. Pinchin or Miss Maria? I didn't men 
 tion either. I meant the chaps who go out walking 
 with you. They 're the ones." 
 
 She smiled lightly at the suggestion. " You 're 
 the only one I 've ever walked with, Mr. Geikie," said 
 Corrie, shaking her head ; " under ordinary circum 
 stances, I come here with Miss Maria, or, on occa 
 sion, with Mrs. Pinchin herself. You see, I don't 
 know any young men ; you 're the only one I 've 
 ever met." 
 
 He looked at her in astonishment. " Do you really 
 mean that? Why, where have you lived all your 
 life in a nunnery ? " 
 
 " No I 've lived at Mrs. Pinchin's," she answered 
 quietly, certain, at all events, that to herself it ex 
 plained everything. " But don't let 's talk about 
 that," she murmured, with a little frown. " Can't 
 we be serious? " 
 
 They had entered the Park during this momentary 
 conversation. Reaching the drive, they crossed 
 northward past that amazing example of the foun 
 dry molder's art, the bulk of metal that may be a 
 statue, but is certainly not, as alleged, the statue of 
 Daniel Webster. It upreared itself there in an atti 
 tude as if it had just asked alms of the passing 
 
 196
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 throng, and had been haughtily refused, its posture 
 all the more affecting because of the nest some spar 
 row had built in its nerveless fingers. But beyond 
 this foundry exhibit was something more natural 
 more like nature winding paths that led unex 
 pectedly into quiet, unfrequented nooks; little hills 
 and vales, lone and secluded, stretches of shadowy 
 thickets and treeland that were almost like a bit of 
 countryside. Until they reached this quiet, they 
 seemed anxious to avoid the topic that had brought 
 them together this morning; but once they were 
 alone alone, if one omitted the few stragglers 
 drifting aimlessly along the paths he turned to 
 her suddenly. " Now please tell me what happened 
 to you about Mrs. Pinchin, I mean. You said it 
 was dreadful." 
 
 Corrie thoughtfully lowered her eyes ; for the mo 
 ment, she made no answer. " What is it? " he asked, 
 her puckered brow telling him that something troub 
 lous lay on her mind. " Is there any reason why you 
 don't like to tell what has happened? " 
 
 She nodded slowly. " Yes." She thought a mo 
 ment longer, and then turned to him impulsively. 
 " Please don't think me stupid foolish or any 
 thing like that. But I wish you would tell me this: 
 Is it right for me to tell what goes on in that house? 
 I wish you 'd tell me frankly. You know," she cried, 
 with a little regretful laugh, " I 've never had anyone 
 to guide me to tell me what is right and wrong in 
 a puzzle like this. I wish to tell you everything; I 
 know I can trust you ; but still Mrs. Pinchin's house 
 
 197
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 is my home, such as it is, and its secrets seem hardly 
 the thing to talk about. Won't you tell me what I 
 should do?" 
 
 He shook his head. " I confess I don't know," he 
 said quietly. " You must n't tell me anything that 
 will hurt you to tell. I wished to know what had hap 
 pened, only because of the hope that I might help 
 you. I think I could, too, if you would let me." 
 
 A little tremor shook Corrie. " I know you would," 
 she answered softly ; " you seem to be the only 
 friend I 've ever had. Do you really wish to know 
 about Mrs. Pinchin? Shall I tell you why I tried to 
 find out something about her from you and your 
 mother and uncle? Do you really wish to know? " 
 
 Again he shook his head. " No, not if it would 
 pain you to tell me. And besides " 
 
 " Besides what ? " she prompted, when he 
 faltered. 
 
 " Well," he responded softly, " I know or, 
 rather, I have guessed why you have tried to find 
 out." 
 
 The color crept slowly into Corrie's face, and then 
 as slowly faded away. " You say you know ? " 
 
 " Yes. How could I help guessing it, when I 've 
 thought of it so much. You told me enough, yes 
 terday, to let me understand." Then he caught 
 sight of the cloud in the gjrl's eyes. " I am so 
 sorry," he whispered softly. 
 
 Corrie looked up at him, her face composed again, 
 though the old, shadowy, wistful expression still 
 lingered in her eyes. " Yes, you have guessed it," she 
 
 198
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 murmured. " I was trying to find out about myself 
 
 not who Mrs. Pinchin is. I was trying not only 
 to find that out, but more not only who I am, but 
 
 well, even more than that. I have been trying for 
 years, ever since I was a little girl." 
 
 Then she turned away, her eyes misty, fearful lest 
 he see her emotion. But he did see it, and straight 
 way, with a ready sympathy, did his best to comfort 
 her. " You must n't feel that way about it," he re 
 monstrated cheerfully. " I 'm sure we 're going to 
 straighten it out." 
 
 Driving back her emotion, Corrie looked up again 
 with a smile. " Well, you know now," she said 
 quietly, " and now that I 've told you, what do you 
 think of it?" 
 
 " Poor little girl ! " he whispered. 
 
 In a few moments, they had left the peopled 
 quarter of the Park behind, and now were really and 
 wholly alone, hedged in by walls of shrubbery, and 
 with only an impertinent, scampering squirrel for 
 company, and the birds who mated there, together 
 forgetful of the city that lay so close beyond. 
 Corrie was the first to speak again. 
 
 " I wish to tell you everything," she said simply, 
 " because somehow I feel that you are one in whom I 
 can really confide. I 've never had anyone before, 
 you know." 
 
 So quietly she gave him the story, nothing omitted, 
 all her secret revealed. She told him of all her child 
 hood at Mrs. Pinchin's, of Mrs. Pinchin's oppression, 
 and of the cruelty of that moment when Mrs. Pinchin, 
 
 199
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 in her cold anger and contempt, had dubbed her with 
 a name, choosing it outlandishly from the vulgar 
 term Brown, Smith, and Robinson. She told him, 
 too, of the nights when she had sat up in bed in the 
 dark, crying Corrie Who? and, afterward, Corrie 
 What? All this she repeated simply, unreservedly, 
 and without affectation ; and the boy's face reflected 
 her own trouble that came with the bitter memories. 
 " Oh ! " he exclaimed, shocked, when Corrie came to 
 the part where Mrs. Pinchin had held the child be 
 tween her knees and rapped out the threat : " Your 
 father, hey? " Rap! tap! a bailiff's double knock. 
 "You'd better not speak of your father!" Rap! 
 tap! " Oh! " he exclaimed, flushing painfully. Cor 
 rie went on, undeterred. 
 
 " No, I mean to tell you everything ! " she de 
 clared. So word by word, deed by deed, scene by 
 scene, the whole story poured from her, all of it 
 down to the time when, filled with her trouble, she 
 had begun her guileless effort to unravel the tangle 
 unaided. " It was really you who gave me the first 
 hint," she added thankfully. " You told me of the 
 house down there in that out-of-the-way corner of 
 the city. And if it had n't been for you, I might 
 never have found it." 
 
 But the remembrance scarcely pleased him. 
 " Don't ! I wish you would n't speak of that ! " he 
 protested sharply. *' I did n't dream that this was 
 serious. I hope you '11 forgive me for that bungling 
 business sending you to my mother's house." 
 
 " If you had n't, perhaps I should never have 
 200
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 learned anything. Now there, seems to be a chance 
 of finding it out." 
 
 He looked at her closely. " Have n't you a guess, 
 yet ? " he asked cautiously. " I mean, have n't you 
 thought who Mrs. Pinchin may be and about the 
 Tollabees and what Mrs. Pinchin may be to you? " 
 
 She shook her head. " No, I have n't guessed any 
 thing. But I believe when Mrs. Pinchin's real iden- 
 ,tity is known, I shall learn something about myself. 
 Of that I am convinced, though I can guess nothing 
 more." 
 
 He was still watching her intently. " Listen, 
 Corrie," he began, and then flushed awkwardly. " I 
 mean, Miss Robinson " 
 
 " No, don't not that. I detest the sound of it, 
 and I don't mind the other in the least. It sounds 
 friendly and you are my friend, are n't you ? " 
 She smiled, and then, as if to stay the impulsive 
 words that seemed hovering on his lips, she laid a 
 hand on his arm. " You are the only friend I know," 
 she said simply, " and I hope you will always re 
 main one." 
 
 But at the light in his eyes, Corrie's color came 
 again, and she walked on a little faster. 
 
 " Now," said Corrie, slowing down a little, " let 's 
 be just plain matter-of-fact. You haven't told me 
 about the advertisement yet." 
 
 "No, I haven't," he admitted candidly. "I 
 rather hoped you 'd wait until I found out some 
 thing. Then, if you '11 be really, tijuly good, I may 
 tell you something," he laughed. 
 
 201
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! " Corrie wrinkled her brow again. 
 " I don't see any reason why you should laugh about 
 it, though. Are n't you going to tell me everything 
 now, or are you going to be just as hateful as Mrs. 
 Pinchin?" 
 
 He laughed again at her gaily. " Just wait 
 that 's all." 
 
 " But how are you going to find out about the 
 advertisement, anyway? " she demanded. 
 
 " How? Why, in the simplest way imaginable. 
 I 've answered it." 
 
 " You Ve answered it ! " Corrie cried out in as 
 tonishment. " How in the world did you ever think 
 of doing that? " 
 
 Still again he laughed. " Does n't anyone ever 
 answer advertisements, simple? " he inquired pro- 
 vokingly. 
 
 " Well, how should I know and besides, you 
 sha' n't call me simple, either. I just wished to know 
 how you came to do such an unheard-of thing." 
 
 " All by myself, of course," he answered, amused 
 at her earnestness. " I suppose Uncle Phil would be 
 tearing angry if he heard about it, because last 
 night he took the pains to warn me to keep my 
 hands off this business. I think they know some 
 thing they don't dare repeat ; at all events, it looks 
 as if they were busy guessing, and growing all the 
 more scared at every guess. This morning I showed 
 the advertisement to Uncle Phil, and he nearly 
 jumped down my throat. He warned me again to 
 keep my hands out of it, or there 'd be trouble. But 
 
 202
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 that did n't keep me from trying to find out. I 
 wrote to this Earnest, whoever he may be, and told 
 him that if he 'd communicate with me. he might hear 
 something to his advantage." 
 
 " But what are you going to tell him when he ap 
 pears ? Do you know anything about the Tollabees ? " 
 
 "Tell him?" echoed Phil, "why I'm going to 
 tell him nothing at all. But that won't prevent me 
 from making a lively effort to find out what he 's 
 after, you may be sure. I won't open my mouth 
 until he lets out what he 's after." 
 
 Corrie was frowning at him severely. " I never 
 heard of such duplicity ! " she cried. " Do you think 
 it right? I don't!" 
 
 " Oh, you don't say so ! " he laughed. " That 's a 
 nice thing to tell me, particularly when I 'm doing it 
 only for your sake." 
 
 " If that 's the case, I have a good mind to say you 
 sha'n't do it." 
 
 " Oh, well," he answered, twinkling at her, " if 
 you feel that way about it, I won't play any 
 tricks on him. The fact of the matter is that I 
 really know very little about the Tollabees. I know 
 that Randolph Tollabee is dead; so is his wife, too. 
 And that 's about all." 
 
 " Why, was he married ? " exclaimed Corrie. 
 *' Why, of course ! now that I stop to think about 
 it, he must have been." 
 
 A sudden thought struck her, a flash of illumin 
 ing light, something that confirmed the hazy 
 thought that long had drifted through her mind. 
 
 203
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Tell me," she pleaded swiftly, " did Randolph Tol- 
 labee leave a child? Can you tell me that? " 
 
 Phil, as if trying to dissemble, did his best to look 
 blankly at the distance. " I really don't know," he 
 answered slowly. " If you care to know, that 's what 
 I 'm trying to find out." 
 
 " Oh ! " and after that Oh! Corrie fell silently 
 into thought. 
 
 They had reached the crest of a little hill where 
 the path wound downward to a quiet stream arched 
 by a narrow, rustic bridge. As they reached it, 
 they paused and leaned over the hand rail, absorbed 
 in themselves, and glad of the quiet and loneliness of 
 that hidden spot. 
 
 " There 's one thing more I 'd like to know," said 
 Corrie, after a pause. " Have you ever heard the 
 name of I mean, will you tell me the name of 
 Randolph Tollabee's wife? You remember it, don't 
 you?" 
 
 " Yes, I recall it. I overheard mother and Uncle 
 Phil talking about her last night. She was a young 
 Frenchwoman Leonie Giraud." 
 
 " Leonie Leonie Giraud ! " Corrie repeated the 
 name softly, murmuring it again, not as if trying 
 to recall it, for she had never heard it before; but 
 as if she must remember it always in the future. 
 
 "Haven't you ever heard it before?" he asked; 
 for once the name had left his lips he had looked at 
 her sharply, as if trying to learn whether she had 
 ever heard it. But Corrie had never heard it before, 
 as he saw. " No, of course you would n't remember 
 
 204
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 it," he said. " You could n't recall the name any 
 more than you should know my Uncle Stanwood mar 
 ried a Tollabee. In fact, if you did n't know one 
 fact, it is n't likely you 'd know the other. But still," 
 he added scornfully, " it 's a question whether Uncle 
 Stanwood ever did marry." 
 
 Corrie looked at him vaguely. 
 
 " It is n't a very pleasant thing to talk about," 
 he answered dubiously. "It's just this: Uncle 
 Stanwood seems to have tricked Margaret Tollabee 
 in the same way he tricked everyone else who was 
 unfortunate enough to trust him. No one knows to 
 this day whether he really married her or not. I 
 understand he has even denied it. But I say ! " he 
 cried, changing the subject abruptly, as if eager to 
 get away from it, " It did stir up the family when I 
 told mother and uncle about the photograph album 
 
 the one you have stowed away in the garret." 
 
 " Did it ? I don't see why," answered Corrie 
 idly, much too absorbed with the one sweet echo 
 ringing through her mind to pay heed to anything 
 else the echo of the name, alluring in its euphony 
 
 Leonie Giraud, the dead young wife of Randolph 
 Tollabee. Leonie Giraud! 
 
 "What pictures are in your album?" he asked, 
 with an assumed carelessness ; too careless, perhaps, 
 to have deceived anyone but the absorbed girl. 
 "About the usual kind, I take it, aren't they?" he 
 suggested laughingly. " You know the kind I mean, 
 don't you, the kind they always drag out to bore 
 still further the evening's bored visitors pictures 
 
 205
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 of elderly gentlemen posing at marble-topped tables 
 draped curtain behind hand in coat breast 
 and scowling as if they were determined to look 
 pleasant ? Is n't that it and along with these, a 
 few middle-aged females with corkscrew curls first 
 cousins twice removed? Most of them look as if they 
 ought to be removed altogether." 
 
 Corrie laughed lightly at the description. " No 
 not all, I should say." In a few words she de 
 scribed the faces in the album, sobering as she told 
 of the picture of that dark-eyed woman, the softness 
 of whose dark eyes and quiet smile still shone unob- 
 scured from the faded, yellowing print. Who was 
 she? And the thought brought its answering thought 
 a question, yet perhaps the truth Leonie Giraud? 
 
 " But you 've left out the young ones, have n't 
 you? " suggested Phil, smilingly, when Corrie had 
 finished her description. " Are n't there young 
 hopefuls in the album the darling prides of the 
 family? There must be a lot of those, of course." 
 
 Corrie told him no ; there was only one picture of 
 a child the child held in the arms of the tall, grave 
 man in mourning. Phil listened alertly, while Corrie 
 told of it.- 
 
 But all this was fated to come to a sudden and, to 
 her, utterly unexpected end. " Do you know," he 
 said urgently, " my mother and Uncle Phil wish to 
 see that book of yours. Can't you take it to them 
 this afternoon." 
 
 Corrie thought for a moment. " I 'd like to do it 
 to-day," she answered, after a moment's reflection; 
 
 206
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 " but I can't get away this afternoon. Would to 
 morrow do ? I shall be free then." 
 
 For there had come to her the swift remembrance 
 that on the morrow she would be free of Mrs. Pin- 
 chin free from the imprisonment of that house. 
 Once she had left Mrs. Pinchin's she would be her 
 own mistress, free and unfettered, privileged to go 
 and come as she liked. But on top of this came 
 still another thought. " But does your mother wish 
 to see me? " she asked simply. " Has she forgiven 
 me? Perhaps I should n't go to see her until she 
 herself has asked me." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! " he declared. " Mother is very 
 anxious to see you. Why can't you come to-day, as 
 well as to-morrow? Can't you get away from Mrs. 
 Pinchin?" 
 
 " No, not to-day," answered Corrie, and looked at 
 him to see what he 'd think when she told him. " But 
 to-morrow, Mrs. Pinchin won't have anything to say 
 about it." 
 
 Phil looked at her, puzzled. " Why, is she going 
 away ? " he asked. 
 
 " No, but I am," answered Corrie, clearly. " I 'm 
 going to leave Mrs. Pinchin. I can't stay there any 
 longer." 
 
 But at the look of dismay in his face she laid a 
 restraining hand on his arm. " You don't under 
 stand. Yes, I am going to leave her," she said with 
 a quiet dignity. " I cannot tell you what she has 
 said and done ; but it is impossible for me to go on 
 living in that house. I must find some other place." 
 
 207
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 He hardly waited for her to finish. " But you 
 must n't do that, Corrie ! " he cried energetically. 
 " You can't leave there until you have found an 
 other place to live. You must n't think of it ! " he 
 cried vehemently. " I can't let you do anything like 
 that." 
 
 " But I must. I shall," she insisted gently. " I 
 shall find something to do; there will be some way 
 for me to get along. It is n't so very dreadful, after 
 all. Many other girls have done it." 
 
 " Yes, and many have " He broke off help 
 lessly ; the idea of a girl as young and innocent as 
 she was, trying to get on, alone and unaided, in a 
 place like New York, filled him with dismay. The 
 thought reduced him to arguments he dared not utter 
 to her; in all probability, she would not even have 
 understood them. 
 
 But Corrie seemed determined. " I have my mu 
 sic," she said, filled with innocent courage, all the 
 more affecting to him because of its innocence. 
 " That will support me." 
 
 He still stared at her, disconcerted and dismayed. 
 A girl like that alone and unprotected. " No, you 
 can't do it," he said determinedly. " It 's impossi 
 ble, I tell you. Oh, see here, Corrie, you must prom 
 ise me you won't do anything like that. I can't 
 prevent you, of course ; but is n't there anything 
 to make you change your mind? Go back to Mrs. 
 Pinchin's, won't you? " he pleaded earnestly, " and 
 stay there a while. It won't be for long, I 'm sure. 
 Corrie, promise me, won't you? " 
 
 208
 
 Then, before she had dreamed of it, her face turned itself up 
 to his, her eyes suffused with tears.
 
 YOUNG LOVE 
 
 His hand slipped along the railing of the bridge 
 and gripped hers tightly. She thrilled at the touch. 
 " You '11 promise me, won't you, dear, dear little 
 girl? " he whispered, his voice urgent and masterful; 
 and with the woman's love of being led and con 
 trolled, she thrilled, too, at that. " Don't you see 
 what it means to me ? " he asked, looking down at 
 her, his face filled with concern. 
 
 Again the color crept into her cheeks, burning a 
 moment, only to fade away. She dared not look 
 up at him, for she was trembling, dreading to let 
 him see the answering emotion in her own eyes. 
 " Look up at me ! Promise now ! " he persisted, 
 and then his arm drew her to him. " Will you 
 promise? " 
 
 Her courage gave way there. She dared not look 
 at him, indeed, or, still less, to trust herself to speak. 
 But he would not be denied. " I am waiting," he 
 said. " You cannot go until you promise me." 
 
 " Yes I promise ! " she whispered faintly. 
 "But oh! why do you make me?" 
 
 Then, before she had dreamed of it, her face 
 turned itself up to his, her eyes suffused with tears, 
 and she was lying in his arms white, quivering, 
 unable numbly waiting the moment when his lips, 
 hovering above hers, should claim what they sought. 
 " Corrie ! " he murmured, " my dear little girl." 
 He bent closer, and at the whispered name, her 
 heart again throbbed its answer to his. " Cor 
 rie ! " and then, as if at an awakening call, she 
 realized. 
 
 14 209
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " No, no ! you shall not ! " she cried, distressed. 
 " No " 
 
 Instantly he released her. " I won't ask you to 
 forgive me," he said clearly. " I could not help it, 
 and I am not in the least sorry." 
 
 210
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Relating how Corrie analyzed her own condition. The girl in 
 the phaeton. How even love may add to sadness. Miss 
 Maria's departure. Enter Miss Freedlark, the Sapphic 
 poetess. The art and practice of getting into print. Miss 
 Freedlark's eagerness to exchange Fame for mere bread and 
 butter. The letter from Phil's mother. 
 
 moment passed, a long moment before Cor- 
 * rie dared to trust herself to speak, much less to 
 look at him. The tide of color surged into her face 
 and paled away as soon, flashing intermittently with 
 her emotions. "How dared you?" she asked in a 
 tense whisper, but even that did not dismay him. 
 
 " I could n't help it," he repeated quietly, " and 
 I am not sorry." 
 
 With her head stiffly erect, the girl turned back 
 along the way they had come. She still maintained 
 her reserve, her eyes filled with the tears of regret, 
 perhaps anger, that she allowed herself to be so car 
 ried away in that instant of revealing weakness. 
 To surrender like that to anyone ! To reveal herself 
 to him even before she was asked! She cried out to 
 herself at the thought of it, scourged by self-dispar 
 agement. Even the reminder that he had been 
 equally guilty could not repress her scorn. r She 
 could have cried out to him, as she cried to herself 
 now, " I hate you ! " But she did not. 
 
 211 '
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Before long her silence oppressed him too. " I 
 don't ask you to forgive me," he said gently. " I 
 don't think there is anything to forgive ; I could not 
 help it if I had tried. Won't you look up at me ? " 
 
 Silence. She kept her eyes on the ground, unan- 
 swering. They walked a little further; then he 
 spoke suddenly, as in a flow of irritation at her 
 silence. " You won't speak to me what shall I do, 
 then? Shall I tell you I'm sorry that I didn't 
 mean it? Shall I tell you that? " 
 
 There she looked up swiftly, and her eyes filled 
 with fire, gleaming behind her tears. " If you 
 dared," she cried passionately, " I 'd never speak to 
 you again never, never look at you ! " 
 
 " Well, don't fear. I have n't the slightest idea of 
 doing it. That 's just what I wished to hear you 
 say." 
 
 Poor Corrie! Knowing what that passionate 
 answer had revealed, she could have bitten out her 
 tongue for saying it. " I think you 're hateful 
 hateful! " she cried, her vehemence twofold, once she 
 had looked up and caught the smile lurking in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Corrie oh, Corrie ! " 
 
 " No ! You shall not call me that. I forbid 
 you ! " She snatched away the hand he tried to take ; 
 and then aware that her anger and resentment were 
 still further betraying her depth of feeling, she 
 nerved herself into an icy coldness. 
 
 The sudden change utterly disconcerted him. 
 " Oh, please, won't you please now ! " he pleaded, 
 
 212
 
 ENTER MISS FREEDLARK 
 
 filled with a boyish anxiety; but Corrie, once of 
 fended, was not easily to be pleaded with. 
 
 " You must say no more about it," she declared, 
 her words crisply cold ; "no not if we are still to 
 be friends." One would have thought from her dig 
 nity that a woman of middle age was speaking, not 
 this slip of a girl who relied only on a vague, inde 
 terminate instinct, a kind of inherent tact, to lead 
 her, otherwise unguided, through the difficult paths 
 of life. 
 
 " Very well, then," he answered, restrained, too, 
 now that he saw she was genuinely vexed. " I '11 
 remain, as you say, a friend. But that will not pre 
 vent me from being, sometime some day more 
 than that. But until this is settled, until we 've 
 found out what you wish to know, I '11 be just a 
 friend, just the friend you say." He smiled again 
 as he said it, but there was no smile on Corrie's lips, 
 or in her heart any desire to smile. " After that 
 well." He was looking at her intently now. " Little 
 girl," he added softly, " it does n't make any dif 
 ference what we find out. It will be just the 
 same." 
 
 She heard, but gave no heed to it. They had come 
 to the drive again, the path winding along beside 
 the lake, and at their right the broad roadway 
 swinging southward under its arch of trees. At the 
 turn the uncouth, ugly statue stood with its back 
 turned as if utterly dejected now, and Corrie, star 
 ing at it dully, was just starting to cross the road 
 way when a smart clatter of hoofs sounded on the air. 
 
 213
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 At the crest of the hill a phaeton drawn by a 
 lively pair of grays hove into view. Its broad dash 
 and varnished guards gleamed in the bright sun 
 shine, and as the trap bore on down the slope, there 
 was a play of sunlight, too, on the points of its 
 silver-mounted harness, and a gleam of satiny coats, 
 as the matched pair forged along at their work. A 
 girl drove, a young woman in a jacket and sailor 
 straw, and by the way she managed the lively grays, 
 her hands confidently feeling the bits as they leaned 
 up against the collars, one saw she knew what she 
 was about, and that the groom, who sat looking on 
 from the rumble, was there for form's sake only. 
 
 Corrie looked up in interest as this animated pic 
 ture shot into sight. And Phil Phil looked, too, 
 and then started consciously. The involuntary 
 movement took his hand toward his hat, and the 
 young woman, attracted by the gesture, turned to 
 see who it was. Instantly her whip hand reached 
 over and gripped the lines as if to pull up; and she 
 had already recognized him, when she saw he was 
 not alone. It was all brief, momentary ; the grays 
 had hardly skipped a stride at the touch of their 
 bits, when the girl driving realized he was with some 
 one she did n't know. Dropping her hand, she gave 
 the pair their heads again, and the phaeton flashed 
 by at unabated speed, the girl saluting with her 
 whip, her eyes filled with dancing merriment. 
 
 " Why " exclaimed Corrie, and then checked 
 
 herself. In that moment's view she had recognized 
 the girl as the one she had met on the steps when 
 
 214
 
 ENTER MISS FREEDLARK 
 
 she rang Mr. Biggamore's bell. Corrie looked at 
 Phil; and Phil, frowning uncomfortably, was rue 
 fully staring after the fast disappearing phaeton, 
 over whose folded hood the girl was looking back 
 with a taunting, accusing smile. Then the trap 
 swung out of view around the bend, and he drew in 
 his breath with a sigh. 
 
 " Well ! " he exclaimed, coming out of his silence, 
 " it 's all up with me now ! " 
 
 He said it cheerfully, but with an air as if he 
 could expect neither mercy nor forgiveness. 
 
 " How do you mean ? " Corrie's tone was inno 
 cence itself, but beneath it lurked a little disquiet. 
 
 " Nothing much only that 's Virgie Deane, 
 you know ; " this as if the fact were explic 
 itly self-explaining. 
 
 " Miss Deane does seem to have upset you," ob 
 served Corrie, affecting to look across the lake to its 
 most distant shore. 
 
 " So would you be upset," he laughed, " if you 
 only knew Virgie. I promised yesterday I 'd drive 
 with her this morning, and just after I telephoned 
 you, I called up her father's house and left word for 
 her I would n't be able to accept. Worse than that : 
 I said I found it impossible to get to the Park this 
 morning. Now I suppose I '11 never hear the end 
 of it." 
 
 " Is that the way you always keep your engage 
 ments ? " 
 
 Phil looked at her bewildered. " Are you trying 
 to poke fun at me? You 're nearly as eager as 
 
 215
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Virgie herself. Besides this was an important en 
 gagement. I j ust had to see you, and it could n't 
 be put off." 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" 
 
 "Yes that was just it," he went on heedlessly; 
 " and besides, I can go driving with her any day. 
 Virgie is a dear she is, indeed only Virgie 
 would rather have a chance of rigging me than 
 to do anything else she can think of yes, she 
 would!" 
 
 Corrie felt again that old pang of resentment 
 against the little that life had given to her. She 
 thought of the girl who had just driven by as she 
 thought of others like her; girls of Corrie's own 
 age who enjoyed a good home and a known name, 
 and all the rest life had to offer. Yes! If she had 
 owned a pair of smart ponies and a phaeton equally 
 smart, and if she drove through the Park of a morn 
 ing like that, perhaps he, too, would come with her. 
 And then when the time had arrived and he held her 
 in his arms and his lips hovered above hers ready to 
 claim the offering, she could have given it to him 
 without fear or reservation. For then well, then, 
 she would have been a girl of his own class, one of 
 his own kind a girl with wealth and position and a 
 name, and not not no, not poor little Cor 
 rie, a paid companion, a girl subsisting on charity for 
 a livelihood, and, in her poor little miserable heart, 
 hungering for what was not hers the unattain 
 able, the unknown hungering for even the name 
 that was denied her. 
 
 216
 
 ENTER MISS FREEDLARK 
 
 His voice awoke her from these sorrowful reflec 
 tions, and she saw they had reached the gate. 
 
 " Shall I go with you as far as Mrs. Pinchin's 
 door? " he asked. 
 
 Corrie said no; she would leave him there. He 
 noted her wistful look, and at once, with a boy's 
 self-consciousness, thought he was still unforgiven. 
 
 "Can't we still be friends?" he asked penitently; 
 "won't you make up with me?" 
 
 " Yes ; we shall be friends," she answered, and 
 smiled at him. All the gloom swept out of his face 
 at her assurance. 
 
 " Good-bye, Corrie. No, you can't prevent me ! " 
 he cried, when he saw her lips frame the reproof for 
 calling her that again. " You are always to be 
 Corrie Corrie no matter what happens. Good 
 bye, and don't forget to-morrow." 
 
 Corrie freed her hand from his. " To-morrow? " 
 
 It was his turn to look at her reproachfully then. 
 " Have you forgotten about the album? You 're 
 to bring it down to the house. Promise now? " 
 
 " Yes I promise." 
 
 " Good-bye, and don't forget to-morrow after 
 noon. I have to hurry now, or Mrs. Pinchin will 
 demand an explanation from me, too." He laughed 
 as he raised his hat. " Don't you know ? my day's 
 bread and butter. I 'm still working over her houses. 
 I can't throw up my job just because it's Mrs. 
 Pinchin. Good-bye." 
 
 Long after she had left him he stood at the cross 
 ing looking after her. 
 
 217
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Poor Corrie again! Filled with eager anticipa 
 tion, a feeling akin almost to delight, she had gone 
 out to meet him, braving even Mrs. Pinchin's wrath 
 to carry out her heart's desire. But heart's desire 
 must be paid for, too, just as all else must be paid 
 for, even the least of the little that life had given 
 poor Corrie. To-day, in this case, she had paid 
 for it by losing a friend the friend Tie could never 
 be again. She had lost a friend, and in losing him 
 had she gained something else, something more than 
 a friend? The color that crept up into her cheeks 
 
 at the thought faded slowly. Had she gained a 
 
 Once more Corrie contrasted herself with the smil 
 ing girl who had flashed by them in the Park ; again 
 the pang of envy and resentment stirred within the 
 depths of her heart. No why should she even 
 dream of happiness like that? A boy's fancy, a 
 momentary whim, the instant's impulsiveness, that 
 was all it meant. Numb and miserably in the depths, 
 she toiled slowly up the steps, knowing now she had 
 walked only in a dream that had brought its own 
 awakening. Before it went any further too far, as 
 she said to herself she must put an end to it all. 
 
 As Corrie reached Mrs. Pinchin's door the deci 
 sion came to her. She would see him once more, 
 and only once. She would tell him, and there it all 
 should end. Afterward, when she had left Mrs. 
 Pinchin's, she would make a life of her own, and 
 try, in the forgetfulness of winning her way, to blot 
 out all the dream had meant to her. Poor Corrie! 
 
 It was Maggie who answered the doorbell; once 
 218
 
 ENTER MISS FREEDLARK 
 
 she saw who it was that rang, her eyes widened 
 significantly. 
 
 "Ow, an' is it you, miss?" she exclaimed, and 
 then added warningly : " Miss Maria do be askin' 
 for ye, this long time." 
 
 " Where is she? " asked Corrie, dully, knowing 
 what was in store for her, yet careless of the 
 outcome. 
 
 " Ye c'n set yer mind aisy on that, Miss. She 's 
 gone, and ye '11 not see her this day again, I 'm 
 thinkin', for didn't she take a trunk an' all." 
 
 Corrie murmured in astonishment. It was the 
 first time in her experience of the household that 
 Miss Maria had gone beyond the doors with a 
 trunk; for never in that time had Mrs. Pinchin's 
 poor relation spent more than a few nights away 
 from her. But dulled by all the happenings that 
 had crowded in together so lately, Corrie made no 
 effort to solve this new bewilderment; and shrug 
 ging her shoulders, she began slowly to take off her 
 hat and coat. Maggie had nearly reached the base 
 ment stairs when she awoke sufficiently to think of 
 Mrs. Pinchin, wondering whether she, too, had gone 
 away on a visit. 
 
 " Did Mrs. Pinchin leave any word for me? She 
 has n't gone out for the night, too ? " 
 
 "No, Miss, an' she didn't lave a word, either. 
 Sure," said Maggie, and cautiously lowered her 
 voice, " she went out o' here as if J t was the plague 
 she left behind. There'll be some wan waiting in 
 the parloor for her now." 
 
 219
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Corrie started up the stairs without troubling to 
 look into the drawing-room. Below, she could hear 
 Maggie grumbling on her way kitchenward, and she 
 had almost reached the first landing, when she heard 
 her name called. 
 
 " Yes," answered Corrie, and turned back curi 
 ously. 
 
 At the entrance to the drawing-room stood Miss 
 Freedlark, the Sapphic poetess of Mrs. Pinchin's 
 Sunday evenings. Corrie recognized the tall, weedy 
 form, the figure now posing in the doorway and 
 smiling indulgently, with a simper that widened 
 her wide mouth like the maw of a Jack-o'-lantern. 
 Evidently she was in her most condescending 
 mood. 
 
 " I do hope I don't disturb you ! " she implored, 
 with a swanlike curvetting of her lean neck, " but 
 I so wish to see Mrs. Pinchin. You know she is 
 giving another of her delightful little Sunday even 
 ing functions, and I 'm just dying to learn all about 
 it yes, Sunday evening at eight, as you doubtless 
 know." 
 
 Corrie did n't know. As a matter of fact, the 
 news was almost a revelation; for could it be pos 
 sible that Mrs. Pinchin, in the midst of the excite 
 ment and obvious alarms that had descended on her 
 home, should still be determined enough to keep on 
 with her formless, unclassed, social endeavors? It 
 seemed incredible; and with a new spark of interest, 
 Corrie listened attentively to the poetess. 
 
 " Oh, yes, indeed ! Mrs. Pinchin wrote me this 
 220
 
 ENTER MISS FREEDLARK 
 
 morning that I was expected; and she actually 
 hinted of a plan to establish her evenings on a 
 still more elaborate scale. But, there! Of course 
 you know all about it, and don't like to speak of 
 it without her permission. Is that it ? " Miss Freed- 
 lark curved her neck and simpered anew, in the 
 most insinuating manner. " But then, you won't 
 mind telling me, since we are such good chums al 
 ready. Besides, Mrs. Pinchin always is delighted 
 to let me know." Curvetting and smirking and 
 preening herself with genial self-assurance, Miss 
 Freedlark drew a notebook out of her reticule, and 
 disposing herself in an attitude of intense and al 
 luring attention, prepared to take copious notes. 
 " Now there will be music yes ? " inquired the 
 poetess, her pencil poised expectantly over the 
 notebook. 
 
 " But I know nothing at all about it ! " protested 
 Corrie, who had been vainly trying to get in a 
 word edgeways during Miss Freedlark's ecstatic 
 assurances. " You '11 have to see Mrs. Pinchin 
 herself." 
 
 Miss Freedlark clucked her tongue tragically. 
 " Oh, dear ! how provoking ! I suppose I shall have 
 to wait then, and I am so pressed for time ! " But 
 distressing as the circumstance seemed to be, Miss 
 Freedlark at once showed herself able to treat it 
 philosophically. Replacing the notebook and pencil 
 in her reticule, she clasped her hands beneath her 
 chin, and leaned brightly toward the girl. 
 
 " You shall help the moments flit away, then ! " 
 221
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 she cried animatedly ; " now sha' n't we have a nice, 
 cosy little chat together? " 
 
 Corrie found a place on the sofa, not because she 
 was allured by the prospect of a nice, cosy little 
 chat, but rather because of a momentary thought. 
 Miss Freedlark was known to be self-supporting; 
 perhaps Miss Freedlark, then, might be induced to 
 reveal the usual methods. " You write, don't you ? " 
 inquired Corrie, pleasantly, and leaned toward the 
 poetess attentively. 
 
 Miss Freedlark's answering simper was a mixture 
 of depreciation and self -consciousness. " Oh, yes ! " 
 she murmured, striving to appear off-hand and 
 casual; though why the admission that she wrote 
 should affect her so consciously, one is unable to 
 say. At all events, Miss Freedlark showed it as her 
 class inevitably show it, making as much of the ad 
 mission as if she were a lawyer talking of law, or 
 a millionaire talking of money, or a drummer who 'd 
 sold a bill of goods, perhaps, or a coal dealer who 'd 
 just got a contract some one of that class who 
 had done something really important and did n't 
 mind talking about it. " Oh, yes ! " murmured 
 Miss Freedlark, looking up at the ceiling, " my 
 little verses sometimes flutter ephemerally into 
 print." 
 
 " I don't mean that kind of writing," Corrie 
 explained with an innocently frank directness ; 
 " you write things you really get paid for, don't 
 you?" 
 
 Miss Freedlark's eyes fell suddenly from the ceil- 
 . 222
 
 ENTER MISS FREEDLARK 
 
 ing and stared at Corrie with an altered and less 
 exalted expression. " Occasion-ally occasionally 
 not very important, however. Little pot boilers, 
 something here and there, though of course all that 
 one does write does aid so much toward grasp and 
 technique." Rolling the phrase beneath her tongue, 
 and, as if charged again with good humor at its 
 happiness, Miss Freedlark simpered anew. " Grasp 
 and technique and the larger spirit," she said unc 
 tuously, and waved a careless hand. 
 
 Corrie wondered, though she didn't say so, what 
 element of grasp and technique entered into the 
 composition of West Side Society notes, Miss Freed- 
 lark's most known writings. 
 
 " Every little helps, you know," added the poetess, 
 grandiloquently. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it does," Corrie answered re 
 flectively. " I wish I knew how to write or to do 
 something like that." 
 
 Miss Freedlark, charmed at having so easily struck 
 the answering chord, at once launched into a dis 
 quisition on the art of writing, and what an easy 
 art it was to acquire, providing one harked to the 
 instincts of the untrammelled soul. " Of course, 
 situated as I am and dependent entirely on my art, 
 I cannot devote myself always to what I feel; but 
 some day, I hope, I shall be free to do that at last, 
 the inspired moment when I shall be at liberty to 
 pen only the artistic and the worthy. But, of course, 
 now," added Miss Freedlark, dropping into a less 
 ethereal key, " you 're not like me. You don't have 
 
 223
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 to think about board and lodging, when you have 
 so good and generous an employer I mean, so 
 good a patron and friend as good Mrs. Pinchin. 
 Ah! would that I, too, were as fortunate as you, 
 Miss Robinson. I 've often heard her tell how much 
 she has done for you." 
 
 Corrie stirred restlessly. " Yes, I 've always 
 realized she does," she responded enigmatically. 
 " Sometimes it makes me wish I could do some 
 thing for myself. Earn my living as you do, for 
 instance. I think you are very fortunate." 
 
 It was Miss Freedlark's evident intention to simper 
 again at the vague suggestion she was envied; but 
 she had hardly disclosed her upper teeth in the 
 simper, when' another thought seemed to strike her. 
 Her expression altered itself at once. " Why ! " 
 she cried, and bent forward eagerly, " you speak 
 as if you were leaving Mrs. Pinchin. Can it be 
 possible you are leaving your good and amiable 
 friend? " 
 
 Corrie, realizing how she had committed herself, 
 strove nervously to repair the mischief. But Miss 
 Freedlark, animated to a degree unusual even with 
 her, poured forth a stream of exclamations and 
 inquiries, eager and impetuous. " Oh ah, yes ! 
 I see, Miss Robinson! You think of striking out 
 for yourself? How interesting! You long to enter 
 the field of my art to search for the laurels of 
 fame! You have noble thoughts, dreams, inspira 
 tions ! Ah, how well I know the feeling ! You long 
 to find may I not use the expression ? you long 
 
 224
 
 ENTER MISS FREEDLARK 
 
 for your own metier. Naturally, you require a 
 broader field than the narrow home life can offer, 
 and so you are leaving Mrs. Pinchin? Is not that 
 it? " Miss Freedlark, with an eagerness she now 
 made no effort to conceal, rustled along the sofa 
 toward Corrie. " You are giving up your place? " 
 she demanded, and almost breathlessly added, " What 
 day are you going to quit? " 
 
 Then, as if possessed of further enticing thoughts, 
 Miss Freedlark licked her lips, and shot a quick 
 glance about the room, a look that perhaps cal 
 culated to a nicety the material comforts that would 
 surround her, once she was freed from the struggle 
 of following the metier she had just so wildly ex 
 tolled to the girl. 
 
 " Oh, I did n't mean that ! I 'm not going to 
 leave not yet, anyway ! " cried Corrie, now thor 
 oughly disturbed since she saw the other's inten 
 tion of immediately begging the place from Mrs. 
 Pinchin. " Oh, you must n't say anything to her 
 about it ! " she cried, remembering her promise to 
 Phil that she would stay there until she knew better 
 what she must do. " You won't tell her, will you? " 
 she appealed earnestly. 
 
 Miss Freedlark's face had lost its first eagerness, 
 and she leaned back against the sofa, her ardor a 
 good deal damped. " Oh, no to be sure. I shall 
 consider this as if yes, if I may use the expres 
 sion as if entirely entre nous." Rising from her 
 seat now, she managed to assemble a smile on her 
 horselike features. " Well, I must be going. I fear 
 15 225
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 I cannot wait any longer. But thank you for such 
 a nice little chat." 
 
 The girl, thoroughly miserable, held out a limp 
 hand to Miss Freedlark, and suffered her to shake 
 it with equal inertness. " Good-bye, and thank 
 you so! " Miss Freedlark was saying when a loud 
 peal of the doorbell interrupted. She started 
 eagerly. " Why, there must be Mrs. Pinchin now. 
 Isn't it fortunate?" 
 
 Possessed of the same idea, Corrie would have 
 fled if she could. But already Maggie was coming 
 down the hall from the pantry, wiping her hands 
 on her apron as she scuffled along, and it was too 
 late to retreat. 
 
 But it was not Mrs. Pinchin after all. Corrie, 
 peering over Miss Freedlark's shoulder, saw in the 
 vestibule a plainly dressed woman, obviously a ser 
 vant, who held a letter in her hand. 
 
 "Will there be a Miss Robinson living here?" 
 
 Corrie recognized her instantly; it was the ser 
 vant who had let her in at Mr. Biggamore's. 
 
 " Yes ; do you wish to see me ? " asked Corrie, 
 trying valiantly to hide her agitation from Miss 
 Freedlark's prying eye. Phil had written! She felt 
 the color mount into her cheeks, all the more em 
 barrassed because she knew it had been detected. 
 
 " Oh, yes, Miss. My lady sent this, and would 
 you tell me if there's an answer?" 
 
 Her lady! Not Phil, then, but his mother! Pain 
 fully conscious of Miss Freedlark's close attention, 
 she took the note, and excusing herself, since Miss 
 
 226
 
 ENTER MISS FREEDLARK 
 
 Freedlark gave no sign of departing, rapidly tore 
 it open. 
 
 As she suspected rather, as she knew, the note 
 was from Mrs. Geikie. Turning her back, she read 
 hurriedly, and then crumpled the letter in her hand. 
 " Say that I shall be there at four o'clock," she 
 murmured to the servant ; " that is all." 
 
 Miss Freedlark pulled her veil down over her bony 
 chin. " Well, I really must be going. Will you 
 tell Mrs. Pinchin I am most anxious to see her 
 about the Sunday functions, you know. . Good-bye. 
 I cannot begin to tell you how interesting our little 
 chat has been." 
 
 Corrie hurried to her room, relieved in mind that 
 she was free at last. She locked the door behind 
 her, and tossing her hat and jacket on the bed, 
 hastily smoothed out the sheet of note paper. 
 
 " Dear Miss Robinson," she read again, " after 
 your visit of yesterday morning, certain matters 
 have occurred that make it extremely imperative I 
 should see you. Can you come here this afternoon 
 at four o'clock? Had I the privilege of Mrs. 
 Pinchin's acquaintance, I should not have ventured 
 so far in imposing on your good will, but instead, 
 would have begged your permission to call on you. 
 However, if you find it inconvenient to come here 
 either this afternoon, or at a time in the near future, 
 I shall be most willing to waive any consideration 
 in the matter, and with your permission will hold 
 myself in readiness to visit you at any time you 
 find agreeable. The importance of the matter is 
 
 227
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 the only apology I may offer for the liberty I take 
 in asking this of you. Believe me, 
 
 " LAURA GEIKIE. 
 Tuesday, April the third." 
 
 Drawing up a chair to the window, Corrie pored 
 over the writing again and again, trying to read 
 what lay between the lines. 
 
 228
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Mrs. Geikie's home. Her regret for having suspected Corrie. 
 The question of Mrs. Pinchin. Corrie acknowledges 
 herself. The hunt for parents and a name. Mrs. Gei 
 kie's sympathy. The pictures on the wall. The recog 
 nition. Randolph Tottabee's wife. The tea table in 
 Mr. Biggamore's garden. Mrs. Pinchin's magnanimous 
 offer of an office and a safe. The pot of damson yum. 
 
 TT was four o'clock. 
 
 * " Please, Miss," said Mrs. Geikie's maid, re 
 turning down the stairs, " will you come up to 
 her room? " 
 
 Corrie arose from her seat under the portrait of 
 the youthful Mr. Biggamore and anxiously followed 
 the servant. All her efforts to read between the 
 lines of the letter that had brought her there had 
 been as futile as the first attempt; she was still 
 thoroughly in the dark. 
 
 " Come in," answered a voice, pleasantly, and 
 Corrie timidly entered the room. 
 
 Through the broad, low windows the afternoon 
 sunlight poured brilliantly. It was not a large 
 room, by no means one so spacious, for example, 
 as Mrs. Pinchin's ample boudoir; and in addition 
 to this there were many other dissimilarities. One, 
 in particular, was the absence of that ostentatious, 
 aggressive newness that pervaded Mrs. Pinchin's 
 
 229
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 home, the wealth of varnish at its highest polish 
 that gave to her surroundings something of the look 
 of a furniture shop. A few pieces of mahogany, all 
 of an ancestral age, stood about the room; the rug 
 underfoot, softly suppressed in tone, would have 
 paled in comparison beside Mrs. Pinchin's flowered, 
 florid Wilton; and on the quietly tinted walls only 
 a few drawings and photographs took the place of 
 that extravagance of gold frames, colored prints, 
 and the like, that in Mrs. Pinchin's chamber more 
 definitely suggested the ability to buy rather than 
 the ability to choose. 
 
 Mrs. Geikie was seated at a sewing-table near the 
 window, and if one required any distinction be 
 tween the two women, the fact that Mrs. Pinchin 
 turned up her nose at any domestic employment as 
 menial and beneath her in itself seemed sufficient. 
 Mrs. Geikie arose as the door opened, and setting 
 her work aside, smiled and offered her hand to 
 Corrie. 
 
 " You won't mind my asking you up here, will 
 you? " she asked, though with cordiality rather than 
 apology in the words. " May I thank you, too, for 
 letting me see you again ? " 
 
 Corrie nervously sank into the chair Mrs. Geikie 
 offered, and still a little awkward and wondering, 
 waited for her to declare herself. Though she had 
 no guess why she had been asked there, she still 
 suspected with a vague alarm that in some way it 
 was connected with her morning's walk in the Park 
 with that and, in other ways, with him. Yet when 
 
 230
 
 THE POT OF DAMSON JAM 
 
 Mrs. Geikie spoke again, there was no connection 
 between the words and the girl's troubled thought. 
 
 "I think, Miss Robinson," she said evenly, pick 
 ing up the lace on which she was sewing, " I think 
 that perhaps I may have seemed unkind in my at 
 titude yesterday perhaps unfair. My son told 
 me on his return that you felt deeply the suspicion 
 my brother and I must have shown, and since then, 
 both he and I have regretted it. You will forgive 
 us, won't you, and forget what was really only a 
 natural reticence? " 
 
 A quick sense of relief swept through Corrie's 
 breast; it was to make this gracious explanation, 
 then, that Mrs. Geikie had been moved to send for 
 her, and not for a more embarrassing cause. 
 
 " Indeed," resumed Mrs. Geikie, smiling pleas 
 antly, " I think we have all been playing at cross 
 purposes. Perhaps now we may feel inclined to 
 trust each other more frankly don't you think 
 so, too? " 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Geikie. And if I pained you yester 
 day, won't you forgive me? I know now how dis 
 tasteful it must have been to you how curious it 
 must have seemed that an utter stranger should have 
 come to you as I did." 
 
 " But you are no longer such a stranger, my 
 dear," gently insisted Mrs. Geikie, with another re 
 assuring smile. " I think we may talk now with 
 out any fear or restraint. My son has repeated to 
 me a little of what you have told him, and I need 
 hardly say we are deeply interested. Had we only 
 
 231
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 known yesterday why you are so gravely and hon 
 estly concerned in learning the identity of your 
 of Mrs. Pinchin, there would have been no cause 
 for our alarm. My dear," she asked, a kindly en 
 couragement in her voice, " won't you tell me about 
 it now? If you will let me know who you think 
 Mrs. Pinchin is, and why you think so, perhaps I 
 may be able to help you." 
 
 Once more the secret that Corrie had so resolutely 
 guarded was to be drawn from her. To tell it now 
 was no easier than before perhaps even harder. 
 She looked up, embarrassed, her eyes suffused with 
 emotion, and then she saw, that even though this 
 were his mother, she need have no fear in disclosing 
 it. Besides, could she honestly let the suggestion 
 stand that she sought to probe into only Mrs. 
 Pinchin's identity ? " No ; that is not it," she fal 
 tered ; " it was not only to find out about Mrs. 
 Pinchin. It was " She fixed her eyes on Mrs. 
 Geikie's encouraging, sympathetic face, and clasped 
 her hands in distress. " I am trying to find out 
 about myself. Oh! it is so hard to say. Mrs. 
 Geikie, I am trying to find out who I am, and 
 who my parents were. I don't even know whether 
 
 they are living. I don't even know " Her voice 
 
 sank despairingly to a murmur. " I don't even 
 know my own name." 
 
 Her voice broke at the words, faltering and filled 
 with the trouble of such an admission; and the 
 other leaned over and laid a pitying hand on 
 Corrie's.
 
 THE POT OF DAMSON JAM 
 
 " Yes ; that is what we thought. That is one of 
 the reasons why we sent for you." 
 
 They were quiet for a moment, the gentle hand 
 still stroking the girl's in unaffected sympathy. 
 Corrie brushed away her tears, and looking up, 
 smiled a little as she spoke. 
 
 " You see why I could n't tell you.- It was some 
 thing I was ashamed to speak about to anyone. 
 Nobody ever cared, anyway, and there was no one 
 who would offer to help. I think Mrs. Pinchin 
 really knows who I am; but then, you see, when 
 ever I asked her she grew furious at my questions. 
 Sometimes I thought she was frightened, too. 
 When I was a little girl, and used to try to find 
 out about my mother and father from her, she 
 locked me in my room. So I had to find out for 
 myself ; it was the only way. I did n't dare let 
 anyone know what I was doing, for I was afraid 
 afraid that Mrs. Pinchin would hear of it, and 
 oh, Mrs. Geikie afraid of the truth should I learn 
 it." 
 
 "Yes I understand. Poor little child!" 
 
 That was what he had said, too poor little 
 child! But the words were uttered now with even 
 a deeper sense of pity a mother's knowledge of 
 a woe like hers, a mother's pity for a pitiably mother 
 less child. The comfort in that look appealed to 
 Corrie as no look ever before had appealed, and 
 with a catch in her breath, she smiled back grate 
 fully. " You seemed so sweet and kind when I saw 
 you, I was almost tempted to tell you, and then 
 
 233
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 your son, Mr. Geikie, came in, and I couldn't 
 no, not before him." 
 
 " Then he does n't know? " asked the mother, 
 softly. 
 
 Corrie no longer felt a desire to conceal anything 
 from so gently understanding a confessor. " Yes 
 he knows. I told him everything, this morning, 
 when I met him in the Park." 
 
 The hand still pressing hers quivered as if with 
 a quick, uncontrolled answer to an unexpected pang. 
 
 " You and my boy were in the Park? Yes yes, 
 I see," she murmured, and the tone was unchanged, 
 still gentle and controlled. " You told him all 
 though was it necessary, my dear child? " 
 
 Corrie resolutely kept on. " I told him because 
 I wished him to know. I couldn't keep his friend 
 ship honestly if I did not tell him. No not when 
 he is the first friend I have ever had ! " 
 
 " Naturally you could not," agreed Mrs. Geikie, 
 after thoughtfully looking at Corrie. " You felt 
 you could permit no young man's attentions is 
 that it? when so much about yourself remains in 
 doubt. Yes you are right." 
 
 For the first time during the interview, the gravely 
 placid woman momentarily seemed to have lost in 
 terest in the girl's heartfelt appeal to her. A little 
 drawn look of pain settled about her lips ; there was 
 a hint of sadness in her eyes. " Yes ; you did right 
 with him! ! " she murmured, and fell silent. 
 
 Her glance drifted away to the opposite wall, 
 where hanging from the picture molding was a por- 
 
 234
 
 THE POT OF DAMSON JAM 
 
 trait in an oval frame. The face was of a man per 
 haps forty years of age, perhaps younger ; an alert, 
 firm-eyed face, well-bred, and, if not handsome, at 
 least pleasant in its smiling kindliness. Mrs. 
 Geikie's glance rested on it for a moment, and Cor- 
 rie's eyes unconsciously following, she realized from 
 the resemblance between it and Phil's young face 
 that this must have been the man who had died so 
 shamefully as the result of another's shameful, 
 tragic wrongdoing. But beneath the portrait was 
 another picture, and her eyes lowering to it, Mrs. 
 Geikie arose. 
 
 " Will you come look at this, Miss Robinson ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 Corrie saw it was a group of three young men 
 in yachting flannels, all of the style of a past gen 
 eration. Moved by the significance in Mrs. Gei 
 kie's tone, she pored intently at the old-fashioned 
 print. 
 
 " This was my husband the one in the center, 
 Miss Robinson," said Mrs. Geikie, pointing out the 
 figure, " and this young man the one at his right 
 I think you have seen recently." Mrs. Geikie 
 smiled as she spoke. 
 
 . " You mean this one? Yes, why, it *s Mr. Bigga- 
 more, is n't it ? Mr. Biggamore, though much 
 younger ! " 
 
 " Yes ; but have you ever seen this man the 
 one here on the left? Do you recall his face? " 
 
 The recognition came abruptly convincing, 
 once the suggestions dawned upon her; for it was 
 
 235
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 the face of the man in the album at home, a more 
 youthful likeness of the man in that other portrait. 
 
 " Yes, I know him. It is the one. I 'm sure of 
 it!" 
 
 "But do you know his name? who he was?" 
 persisted Mrs. Geikie, still with her finger pointing 
 him out. " Have n't you been told who he is ? " 
 
 Corrie shook her head frantically. " No, I 
 don 't know that. I know only he is the man whose 
 picture is in my album the man dressed in heavy 
 mourning. There 's a little child in his arms." 
 
 "And you don't know his name?" asked Mrs. 
 Geikie, with a deeper suggestion in the question than 
 even before. 
 
 Corrie despairingly said, " No." 
 
 "That is Randolph Tollabee. My dear, I think 
 you should try to remember it." 
 
 Randolph Tollabee ! and with the suggestion 
 now attached to the name, the understanding com 
 ing to her by leaps and bounds, all the romantic 
 visions of her dreams whirled up before her, filling 
 her mind with a flash of the living truth. Realiza 
 tion was face to face with her. Randolph Tollabee! 
 the name had ever appealed to the girl with a 
 subtle force and intensity. White and quivering, 
 Corrie stared into Mrs. Geikie's face, her eyes pas 
 sionately entreating the answer to the question they 
 so passionately asked. 
 
 " Is it that ? what Phil meant ? why he 
 wished me to wait? " 
 
 The mother gave no sign she had heard her sou's 
 236
 
 THE POT OF DAMSON JAM 
 
 name spring so readily to Corrie's lips. She laid 
 her hand again on Corrie's. 
 
 " Do not raise your hopes too much, child. I 
 meant to prepare you, and perhaps perhaps 
 no, we do not know yet. You must wait till we 
 make sure. I wished only to let you know what we 
 were doing. I did not dream it would be so great 
 a shock ! " 
 
 The girl's hands clasped themselves together as 
 she turned back to the picture, studying with a 
 keener, more knowing intentness now, the face she 
 already knew so well. " Oh no, you must not tell 
 me too much, Mrs. Geikie," she cried in a whispered 
 emotion ; "no not unless you are sure it is trua 
 To know the truth is all I have asked it might be 
 happiness enough. But to know who I am and that 
 there is no that I have a name and a right to the 
 name oh, the j oy of it, Mrs. Geikie ! That would 
 be above any happiness I have ever had ! " 
 
 Her eyes even now were filled with the dream. 
 " Tell me about him. Tell me a little, won't you 
 and my you will tell me whom he married 
 something about her, too? " 
 
 Mrs. Geikie went back to her chair, and slowly 
 pondered. " There is really very little to tell no, 
 not very much, I think. You see, we never really 
 knew the wife. It was well, how shall I say it? 
 why, it was a very quiet match. Randolph we always 
 knew, however. Late in life his father married 
 again, and so far as the father's marriage is con 
 cerned, I can say frankly it was curious. In fact, 
 
 237
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 the stepmother Randolph Tollabee's stepmother, 
 you understand she was their housekeeper ; a very 
 respectable woman, I have been told, yet certainly 
 not of his own station in life. She was a widow with 
 a family of her own children much older, I be 
 lieve, than young Randolph Tollabee. At all events, 
 the Tollabees dropped out of sight after this unfor 
 tunate marriage of the father, and we saw nothing 
 of Randolph until he entered college. My brother 
 
 Mr. Biggamore, you know was in the same 
 class, as well as my husband. The three became in 
 separable after that." 
 
 " But his family the Tollabee family, Mrs. 
 Geikie? " asked Corrie, with a growing, uneasy sus 
 picion of the facts, " what became of the step 
 mother and her children? " 
 
 Mrs. Geikie thought deeply again. " They were 
 not known to us. There was the mother and some 
 
 some girls ! " She halted, as if debating irreso 
 lutely the question of what she should say. Then 
 she seemed to make up her mind. " Perhaps I should 
 be entirely frank, my dear. One of these sisters 
 she was Miss Margaret Tollabee well, I have rea 
 son to believe she is my husband's sister-in-law." 
 
 Mrs. Geikie, at this admission, looked anxiously 
 at Corrie as if to discover what impression it made. 
 Corrie nodded, and Mrs. Geikie looked a little as 
 tonished that it created no greater effect. 
 
 " I fancy my son must have told you that, too, 
 my dear ? I 'm afraid Phil is too frank and open to 
 learn ever to be reserved." 
 
 238
 
 THE POT OF DAMSON JAM 
 
 But a moment later Mrs. Geikie smiled at her 
 own vexation. " Oh, well," she sighed, " I suppose 
 Phil's frankness is not to be cured. But to return 
 to the Tollabees " 
 
 " Yes," murmured Corrie, still uneasily ; " you 
 were telling me what had become of them." 
 
 " We don't know," answered Mrs. Geikie. " You 
 see, we were not acquainted, and though we knew 
 Randolph Tollabee supported them after his father's 
 death, once he was dead you understand I am 
 speaking of Randolph now we never heard of 
 them again not directly, at all events. But let 
 me think a moment. I started to tell you about 
 Randolph Tollabee's own wife." 
 
 " I 'd like to know about her," said Corrie, hesi 
 tatingly ; " will you tell me when she died and where 
 it was? No one has ever told me.'* 
 
 Very quietly and sympathetically Mrs. Geikie 
 rounded out the little story of Leonie Giraud, Ran 
 dolph Tollabee's dead young wife, the mother of his 
 child. " She was a young Frenchwoman who had 
 been giving French to one of the Tollabee girls 
 I call them the Tollabees because they took the step 
 father's name. You may not have heard of course 
 you really do not know a thing about him but 
 Randolph Tollabee was a quiet, absorbed man who 
 cared little for social life. We hoped he would marry 
 someone we knew, a wife who would bring him a 
 name and a place equal to his own; for the Tolla 
 bees, after all, came of an old and proud line in New 
 York. Leonie Giraud was an orphan; her father, 
 
 239
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 who was some sort of a political refugee, had died 
 here penniless, leaving her alone and unbefriended. 
 Certainly it was not the marriage we had anticipated, 
 though she was very beautiful and obviously a gentle 
 woman. Randolph Tollabee married her while we 
 were abroad; and then he went traveling, too; so 
 we never saw her. Two years later we heard from 
 him and oh, that was a grief-stricken, heart 
 broken letter he wrote. He had lost her, my dear 
 she died when her little girl, Dorothy, was born." 
 
 " Oh, how dreadful ! " cried Corrie. shocked. 
 " And you never saw him again ? " 
 
 Again a look of pain came into the quiet eyes, as 
 if the question, innocently asked, had touched anew 
 the soreness of an unhealed sorrow. " Let me make 
 it clear to you," said Mrs. Geikie, with a quiet smile. 
 " My boy says he has told you why we never men 
 tion the name of the man who lives here behind us. 
 Certainly we have nothing to conceal; yet what is 
 to be gained by speaking of it before the world? 
 I shall tell you now, though, that this man not only 
 ruined my husband and wrecked my brother's for 
 tune, but was the cause, too, of estranging us from 
 Randolph Tollabee. Indeed, Mr. Tollabee's own for 
 tune was seriously involved, and it was because of 
 it it was for that my husband he " 
 
 *' Yes, I know. You must not speak of it ! " whis 
 pered Corrie. " I have heard ! " 
 
 " But I want you to know," Mrs. Geikie declared 
 in a strained voice ; " I wish everyone to know. 
 Two days before his death, Randolph Tollabee wrote 
 
 240
 
 THE POT OF DAMSON JAM 
 
 he had found a package of papers that cleared my 
 husband of the slightest blame. To him, to us all, 
 it seemed like a gift Heaven-sent to free us. My hus 
 band he was still living, trying to clear himself 
 by every act in his power, and to restore to others 
 what they had lost my husband hurried away to 
 catch the first train to go to him. It was an all- 
 night journey, for Randolph Tollabee was in 
 Sprucemont, a little Adirondack village where he 
 had gone to recover his wasted health. We could 
 hardly wait for him to return, Mr. Biggamore and 
 I. Then we got a telegram; my husband was com 
 ing home. My dear, Randolph Tollabee had died 
 suddenly the day before, and there was no trace of 
 the papers. They were gone. We never found 
 them." 
 
 She turned her head away from the girl's young, 
 absorbed face, and gazed thoughtfully through the 
 window at her side. " Child, grief we must all suf 
 fer at some stage in our lives; but pray you may 
 be spared a sorrow that bears with it a shadow you 
 cannot lift not of death, for there is a respect 
 and nobility in that which helps to cure the pain; 
 but the shadow of wrong and sin and evil. Do you 
 understand me? " 
 
 Corrie had thought to ask something more, but 
 she dared not now, fearful as she was of touching 
 again the scar of that affliction. It was the question 
 about Mrs. Pinchin who she was, and whether 
 they knew her now? But it must wait. Time would 
 soon give her the answer, and then, too, Corrie had 
 16 241
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 already learned much. As she sat thinking of it, 
 there came a knock at the door. It was the servant. 
 
 " Please, ma'am," said the maid, " Miss Deane 
 is below. She 'd like to ask if she can have tea with 
 you in the garden." 
 
 " Yes. I shall be down directly." 
 
 The maid departed, and Mrs. Geikie slowly arose. 
 
 " You must come to-morrow, my dear, and bring 
 your album. I want you to see Mr. Biggamore once 
 again, and give him all the information that is pos 
 sible. I think we are in a fair way to clear up the 
 mystery yes, I feel certain about that. Now, you 
 will come down with us and have a cup of tea? " 
 
 Though Corrie would have preferred to get 
 quietly away to her thoughts, to escape seeing any 
 one now, and, more particularly, the girl whose ap 
 pearance in the Park that morning had affected 
 her so strongly, there was no way in which she could 
 very well refuse the invitation. The thought of see 
 ing Phil, too, so soon, affected her; and as she and 
 Mrs. Geikie went down the stairs together, Corrie 
 decided she must depart as soon as she could, before 
 he came in and found her there. 
 
 But all this decision was ordained to come to 
 naught. As she and Mrs. Geikie reached the French 
 windows leading out into the veranda, a peal of 
 laughter came ringing up from the garden, a breeze 
 of merriment in which Miss Deane's glee was echoed 
 by a man's jubilant tones. Then, while the girl's 
 jollity still filled the garden, Corrie heard Phil's 
 voice lifted in mirthful remonstrance.
 
 THE POT OF DAMSON JAM 
 
 " Oh, I say, Virgie, you 'd better not let Uncle 
 Phil catch you doing that ! " 
 
 " Nonsense ! " came the retort, with another rip 
 ple of gleefulness; "who's afraid? I want one all 
 for my own ! " 
 
 " All right go ahead, then. But he '11 pull out 
 all his front hair if he catches you ! " 
 
 Corrie involuntarily drew back as another burst 
 of laughter rang in the garden. But it was too late 
 now to escape. Miss Deane, with her skirt wrapped 
 around her, was poised in the middle of Mr. Bigga- 
 more's flower beds deliberately plucking the best 
 sprays of hyacinth in the plot, while Phil, still re 
 monstrating, was tugging the ears of a brindle bull 
 terrier who growled hoarsely, and playfully snapped 
 at his fingers. Mrs. Geikie added her voice to the 
 chorus. 
 
 " Virgie! Stop picking the flowers ! Have n't you 
 been told? " 
 
 The girl looked up, and though still bubbling with 
 merriment, she picked her way back through the 
 flower beds to the walk. " Oh, Mrs. Geikie, please 
 don't tell on me, this time ! " 
 
 There was a lock of hair astray on her cheek, and 
 her hat had assumed an unsafe angle during her 
 attack on Mr. Biggamore's flowers, yet her di- 
 shevelment served only to make her more attractive. 
 Rosy and animated, she turned up her laughing 
 face, trying very hard to look contrite and rueful, 
 though the look was not much of a success; and 
 then her eyes fell on Corrie. 
 
 243
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Come here, Virgie," said Mrs. Geikie, who had 
 tried to scold her with a look of seriousness that had 
 failed, too ; " I wish you to speak to Miss Robinson." 
 
 Phil, who had arisen and was trying to push away 
 the exuberant, jumping bull terrier, swung around 
 with an exclamation. 
 
 *' Why, when did you come ? " 
 
 A gleaming light of fun danced into the other 
 girl's eyes. Phil detected it and colored faintly in 
 confusion ; and while Corrie followed Mrs. Geikie 
 down the steps to the garden, she was conscious of 
 Phil scowling at his tormentor, and of Miss Deane 
 returning the scowl with rising merriment. Cer 
 tainly, the knowledge added little to her ease, and 
 when the other girl came forward, her hand out 
 stretched and her lips parted in a frank smile of 
 friendliness, Corrie, all the more conscious, tried 
 vainly to hold 'back the color she knew had flooded 
 into her cheeks. 
 
 Moreover, her confusion seemed shared by Phil, 
 a fact that Miss Deane slyly acknowledged with 
 another demure gleam. " It 's very nice to meet 
 you ! " exclaimed Miss Deane, energetically gripping 
 Corrie's fingers ; " now we can have a real tea party 
 all four of us together ! Phil ! stop trying to 
 push me away ! " 
 
 " I 'm only trying to welcome Miss Robinson, if 
 you '11 give me a chance, you know. Will you call 
 off your dog, too, Virgie? Go 'way from here, you 
 brute. How can I do anything when he 's worrying 
 my heels ? " 
 
 244
 
 THE POT OF DAMSON JAM 
 
 Miss Deane mocked him with another gleam, and 
 called to the terrier. " Come here, Cave Canem ; he 
 sha' n't talk to you like that. You can see, Miss 
 Robinson, what a dreadful disposition he has I 
 mean Phil ; not poor Cavie." 
 
 There was something so unaffectedly cordial in 
 Miss Deane's heartiness that Corrie felt herself re 
 assured. Furthermore, the arrival of the tea table 
 at this juncture gave her a chance to compose 
 herself. 
 
 " Phil ! " cried his mother from the other side of 
 the garden, " you and Virgie stop your quarreling, 
 and you come here and light the lamp for me. You 
 have n't told me yet what you 've been doing all 
 day." 
 
 Phil, who had stopped exchanging words with 
 Miss Deane to devote himself to Corrie, turned 
 around with sudden interest. 
 
 "Oh! I'd forgotten to tell. What do you 
 think? I have a new job offered to me! " 
 
 "A job!" mimicked Miss Deane, with unextin- 
 guished raillery ; " that sounds as if you were 
 really going to work. Is it honest, worthy toil, 
 may I ask the kind that requires a tin dinner- 
 bucket? " 
 
 Phil frowned at her again. " You '11 be a great 
 comfort to some one when you grow up, Virgie. 
 Now please be seen and not heard. I was about to 
 say I 'd been offered a new position can you guess 
 by whom? " He looked at his mother and then at 
 Corrie, his eyes twinkling, when they shook their 
 
 245
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 heads. " No, you 'd better give it up ! " he 
 cried, enj oying their bewilderment , " for it was of 
 fered to me by by Mrs. Pinchin ! " 
 
 " Philip ! is that true? " 
 
 " The Gospel truth, mother dear.'* 
 
 Miss Deane joined in again. "Mrs. Pinchin! I 
 thought you were going to tell her to take back 
 her old houses ! " she exclaimed, in a tone that 
 showed she, too, must know something about the 
 situation. 
 
 Phil darted a swift look at Corrie, and then an 
 swered Miss Deane. " I am, Virgie, all in time. I 
 can't throw up the work, though, right in the middle. 
 I have to carry out the contract, no matter what 
 faces I make over it." 
 
 " Phil," interposed his mother, gravely, " I wish 
 to hear what Mrs. Pinchin offered you. Give Miss 
 Robinson and Virgie their cups, and then tell me. 
 Cream and sugar, my dear? " 
 
 " Yes, please," answered Corrie ; " one lump and 
 very little cream." 
 
 " Two lumps and lots of cream for me, Mrs. 
 Geikie," begged Miss Deane ; " and may I please 
 have a lump for Cavie? He adores sugar." 
 
 Phil handed the tea to the two girls, and then 
 offered them their choice of toasted biscuit, bread 
 and butter, and cake. 
 
 c " Going up ! " murmured Miss Deane in a rising 
 voice, as he stood before her with the curate and its 
 three tiers of dainties. " I want the cake floor, 
 please, elevator man." 
 
 246
 
 THE POT OF DAMSON JAM 
 
 " Virgie ! be still ! " commanded Mrs. Geikie. 
 " Now, Philip, tell me what I wish to know." 
 
 Phil sat down and balanced his cup of tea on his 
 lap. " Why, I was giving the plumbing contractor 
 what-for over some work he 'd done when I heard 
 some one pounding up the stairs. It was Mrs. 
 Pinchin, looking pretty fagged and worn out, as if 
 the stairs had been the last straw. She had n't been 
 around for two days rather curious, too, because 
 she 'd never missed a day before. I hardly ever 
 failed to find her there, or, if she wasn't there when 
 I arrived, she came in later and insisted on following 
 me around, poking into corners with her stick and 
 blowing up the workmen and complaining they 'd 
 ruin her with their shiftlessness. Then, between rows, 
 she 'd try to make herself agreeable, asking me about 
 my business, and if I was doing well, and inquiring 
 about my family connections, and whether a young 
 man did n't require a lot of ready money to set up 
 for himself. Why " 
 
 " Phil ! " exclaimed Mrs. Geikie, staring at him, 
 " you never told us about this ! " 
 
 " I know I did n't, mother. What was the use. I 
 thought she was just a vulgarly inquisitive old per 
 son who did n't know any better. To-day I had a 
 better reason than ever to dodge her, but I did n't 
 get a chance. ' Hullo ! you here ? ' she growled 
 gruffly, and came hopping down the hall with her 
 stick. By and by, after she 'd taken a hand, too, in 
 dusting off the plumber, she began to grumble again 
 that she was being ruined, and that unless she got 
 
 247
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 some one honest to take care of her houses, she 'd 
 have to go into bankruptcy. Before long I could 
 see she was leading up to something; then she 
 plumped right out with it. 
 
 " ' Young man, you take charge of my real estate. 
 You won't regret it. I '11 give you an office of your 
 own not the garret where you work now, but a 
 real office.' " 
 
 " Fancy calling Phil's upstairs room a garret ! " 
 murmured Mrs. Geikie, blankly. 
 
 " Yes," her son continued, " she said she 'd give 
 me an office and pay me a good, round sum into the 
 bargain. That was her expression a good round 
 sum. She named the amount, too, and it nearly took 
 my breath away. When I shook my head, she wrung 
 her thick, black eyebrows into a scowl, and came 
 hopping up close in front of me, peering into my face. 
 'Ain't it enough?' she demanded, and began work 
 ing her j aws as if she were swallowing hard. ' How 
 much do you want, then? Come!' she grunted, and 
 then tried to wheedle me into accepting. * I '11 give 
 you a big office, a nice, big, sunny place. You can 
 bring all your papers there all your papers and 
 things like that, and I '11 give you a safe to put 'em 
 in. A nice, big safe big enough for all you and 
 your family. When you go away, they '11 all be 
 secure ; no one can get at them. Why, I 've got 
 a good, big safe already picked out for you. Come; 
 is it a bargain? A good, big office, I 'm telling you. 
 If you want anyone else to be in with you, why 
 you can have them. I don't mind. You 've got a 
 
 248
 
 THE POT OF DAMSON JAM 
 
 friend, maybe, or a relative did n't you say you 
 had an uncle ? Well, I don't mind ; have whoever 
 you want. Do you accept ? ' " 
 
 " I told her I 'd have to make up my mind. ' To 
 be frank,' I said to her, ' I don't think I will accept 
 it. Still, I '11 think of it.' For a moment, I thought 
 she was going to persist, but she only looked at me 
 sourly, and went stamping down the stairs. ' Hunh ! 
 You don't want it ! ' she growled, and then to my 
 astonishment added, ' Well, I did n't suppose you 
 would.' It was exactly as if she had only worked 
 herself up into asking me, and really did n't care. 
 Just as if she had been put up to asking me, and 
 never had felt any faith in what she was doing." 
 
 Corrie listened absorbed. It was another coil in 
 the mystery, something crafty and planned for a 
 purpose, she had no doubt, but what the purpose 
 was, only Mrs. Pinchin might tell. 
 
 Mrs. Geikie, with her chin in her hand, sat for 
 ward listening closely. " As if she had been put up 
 to it?" she repeated thoughtfully; "yes, I think I 
 know now, too, who put her up to it." Then, in 
 voluntarily, she looked up at the closed, secretively 
 shuttered windows of the house behind. 
 
 " Well, that 's all I have to tell," said Phil, aris 
 ing. " Excuse me a moment, will you? " 
 
 Glancing at Corrie with a subtle smile, he entered 
 the house through the lower door, just as the maid 
 emerged. 
 
 " Please, Mrs. Geikie," said the servant ; " Miss 
 Deane's carriage is at the door." 
 
 249
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Miss Deane arose hastily. " Mercy ! I must be 
 going. Mother will think I 'm lost." She held out 
 her hand to Corrie, who had risen too, and then, as 
 a thought struck her, she smiled brightly. " You 
 are going uptown, aren't you? Won't you let me 
 take you home? " 
 
 Corrie tried to escape what she thought would be 
 only a bother to the girl. But Miss Deane read the 
 objection before it was spoken. " Oh, please let 
 me. I 'd dearly love to ! " 
 
 It was a simple thing, kindly done, cordial and 
 unaffected. Mrs. Geikie smiled and nodded, evi 
 dently glad of it, and wishing Corrie to accept the 
 well-meant kindness. 
 
 " If you 're sure it would n't be a bother," she fal 
 tered uncertainly. " But you must n't take me all 
 the way. It 's so far from your own home, is n't it ? 
 Can't I get out at the Park? " 
 
 "Oh, no, indeed. Where's Phil now? Phil!" 
 she called, " we 're going." 
 
 " Coming as fast as I can ! " He emerged from 
 the lower door, hastily cramming a parcel into his 
 coat pocket as he joined them. 
 
 " Good-bye, Mrs. Geikie ! " cried the girl, blowing 
 her a kiss as she ran lightly up the steps to the 
 veranda ; " I may come in again to-morrow." 
 
 She disappeared through the tall, French windows 
 with a last wave of her hand, Cave Canem gamboling 
 at her heels. Corrie held out her hand to Mrs. 
 Geikie. 
 
 " Good-bye, too. I shall bring the album to- 
 250
 
 THE POT OF DAMSON JAM 
 
 morrow morning. Good-bye. You are very kind 
 and sweet to me." 
 
 During that brief half hour in the garden the 
 girl had been very quiet and absorbed, thoughtfully 
 repressed as if she realized with a new distinctness 
 the difference between her own self and that other 
 girl a young life buoyant and spirited, filled with 
 the wholesome cheerfulness that no sorrow had yet 
 impaired. How she longed to be like her longed 
 to possess the other's happiness, her name and her 
 place most of all, that innocent happiness. 
 
 " My dear, good-bye. I think it is all coming out 
 right I think so. But do not let your dreams be 
 come too strong. You must prepare against dis 
 appointment, and what disappointment might bring. 
 Good-bye, now," she murmured, as she left Corrie at 
 the door. 
 
 The voice was just as gentle, the manner just as 
 kind; yet if in reality Mrs. Geikie had closed the 
 door with her son on the inside, and poor Corrie 
 left standing alone outside, the girl could not have 
 more clearly realized the gulf that would lie between 
 them until her name and her parentage good par 
 entage, too were established. 
 
 At the curb the brougham waited. A footman 
 held open the door, looking on with a grin while 
 Phil and Miss Deane struggled to bundle the re 
 luctant Cave Canem inside. From the box a stony- 
 faced coachman ignored the byplay with British 
 stolidity. 
 
 " In there, you clown ! " urged Phil, and with a 
 251
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 final effort lifted the struggling dog inside ; " now 
 stay there ! " 
 
 " He 's just seen a cat," explained Miss Deane, 
 succinctly ; " will you get in while I hold him? " 
 
 Corrie climbed in over the writhing dog; Miss 
 Deane followed, and breathed a sigh of relief when 
 the door was banged to. " Good-bye, Phil ! I hope 
 to see you soon doing worthy toil in a perfectly 
 worthy pair of overalls." 
 
 "Where to, Miss Deane?" asked the footman. 
 
 His mistress had just told him, the footman was 
 springing to the box, when Phil, who had turned 
 away, cried out to them to stop. 
 
 " Hi ! wait a moment ! I 've forgotten some 
 thing!" 
 
 Tugging at his coat pocket, he came running up 
 to the carriage window, and gravely handed Corrie a 
 parcel bound in wrapping-paper. " Don't let Virgie 
 get her hands on it ! " he warned, and, with a laugh, 
 ran back to the house. 
 
 " Well, I like that ! " exclaimed Miss Deane, in 
 dignantly, and instantly starting forward, leaned 
 from the window as if to scream back a withering 
 retort. But Phil had disappeared, so Miss Deane 
 had to content herself with a sniff. " Perhaps it 's 
 an infernal machine," she suggested, eyeing the 
 package disdainfully, though with evident curiosity. 
 " One might have thought so from the way he 
 spoke ! " 
 
 Corrie, whose curiosity was not less than hers, 
 said the best way to find out was to look. So, a little 
 
 252
 
 THE POT OF DAMSON JAM 
 
 embarrassed and conscious, she slowly unwrapped 
 the folds of paper, one by one, a matter somewhat 
 difficult since the other girl insisted on helping and 
 peeping, too. But when the object was revealed, 
 Miss Deane gave it a single look, gasped, and then 
 burst into a gale of merriment. 
 
 "Oh! what a lark! I'll never let Phil Geikie 
 hear the end of this! " 
 
 But poor Corrie, ready to do anything but laugh, 
 sat and stared at the present in her hand. 
 
 It was a pot of damson jam! 
 
 253
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 In which Miss Freedlark, the poetess, is descried in the role of 
 Sister Anne. Her vulgar, prying curiosity. Carrie's 
 reflections and their result. Mrs. Pinchin a thief? The 
 bandbox and Mrs. Pinchin's agitation. Miss Freedlark's 
 curiosity obtains its just deserts. The family dinner and 
 what happened thereat. Miss Freedlark's dissertation on 
 High Life, and the falling of the second thunderbolt. Mrs. 
 Pinchin's departure in the rain. The midnight prowler 
 and the sobbing on the stairs. 
 
 DUSK had come crowding swiftly on the heels of 
 the waning day, when a hand cautiously parted 
 the curtains of Mrs. Pinchin's drawing-room window 
 far enough to disclose the bony, knowing visage of 
 Miss Mina Freedlark, the poetess. Flattening her 
 face against the glass, and with an intentness compar 
 able to the fabled anxiety of Sister Anne on her tower, 
 Miss Freedlark closely reconnoitered the sidewalks in 
 one direction, and then turned around and as closely 
 reconnoitered them in the other. This alert lookout 
 continued for some minutes, her absorbed interest in 
 creasing rather than abating as the time pro 
 gressed; and whatever the nature of her enterprise 
 or what the cause of her vigilance, she was still 
 anxiously straining her eyesight when a brougham 
 turned the corner. 
 
 To be explicit, the brougham was Miss Deane's, 
 which was bearing Corrie to Mrs. Pinchin's door. 
 
 254
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 Inside, the two girls sat talking together amiably, 
 Corrie edging in a word now and then to spur the 
 other on in her whimsical, amusing chatter ; and how 
 happy the drive had been and how short, she realized 
 when she looked up to see regretfully they were 
 turning into Mrs. Pinchin's street. 
 
 " Why ! " she exclaimed ; " we 're at Mrs. Pinchin's 
 already." 
 
 "Mercy! do you live there? I didn't know 
 that! " 
 
 Corrie colored faintly, as she frankly turned to 
 the girl. " I am Mrs. Pinchin's companion, Miss 
 Deane." 
 
 " Her companion ! Oh ! what a lark ! and you 
 live with her? " Miss Deane's exclamation ended 
 suddenly in a peal of merriment; as suddenly she 
 reached out her hand and patted Corrie's. 
 
 " Oh I did n't mean to be rude. I was thinking 
 about Mrs. Pinchin. You really live with her? " 
 
 " Yes ; did n't you know it? " 
 
 " No ; mercy, no ! Phil told me only Mrs. Pinchin 
 was up to something queer, she and that dreadful 
 uncle of his. But does n't she suspect you and Phil 
 are I mean, has n't she found out about you two 
 being Gracious ! you know what I mean ! " ex 
 claimed Miss Deane, confusedly, and then bubbled 
 over with merriment again. 
 
 " No, she has n't found out we 're friends. Good 
 bye; and thank you very much for bringing me 
 home." 
 
 " Oh, don't thank me for that. You don't know 
 255
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 what a lot of fun I 've had. Look ! " cried Miss 
 Deane, suddenly grasping Corrie by the arm, " is 
 that the old bear? Is that Mrs. Pinchin? My! 
 She 's staring at us like a fish in a glass tank ! " 
 
 Not a discreetly elegant remark, though precise. 
 It was Miss Freedlark at the window, still in the 
 posture of Sister Anne. 
 
 At the brougham's approach the alert female, 
 with an eye trained specifically to the externals of 
 wealth and smartness, had fixed herself in a favorable 
 position to spy out the occupants when it passed. 
 But the brougham, instead of continuing down the 
 street, as she had anticipated, drew in toward the 
 curb, and, with a clatter of hoofs and a minor 
 jingling of curbchains, to Miss Freedlark's broad 
 and unconcealed amazement, came to a halt in front 
 of Mrs. Pinchin's, and let out only that lady's paid 
 companion. It was the watcher, with her mouth open 
 in astonishment, that suggested to Miss Deane her 
 apt, if inelegant, comparison. 
 
 Miss Freedlark writhed hastily out of view. Her 
 first thought, of course, was that this was someone to 
 whom Corrie had applied for a position perhaps 
 someone who had already engaged her, for there was 
 no reason to believe that a paid companion could 
 boast a friend as smart and well-to-do as Miss Freed 
 lark's discriminating eye had instantly seen Miss 
 Deane to be, from the smartness of the brougham 
 and the footman at its door. Yes ! she had found 
 another place was that not it? But this pleasing 
 reflection had no sooner entered Miss Freedlark's 
 
 256
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 mind than it was doomed to wither pitiably. For 
 while she lurked behind the curtains, she saw Miss 
 Deane lean from the carriage and wave a gay good 
 bye to Corrie. 
 
 " Don't forget Tuesday at four. Phil 's 
 coming, too ! " she cried, and Miss Freedlark could 
 not very well miss hearing her, since Miss Deane 
 shrilled it with buoyant animation. 
 
 Miss Freedlark, quite beside herself with curiosity, 
 opened the front door for Corrie. " Why, here you 
 are at last ! I 've been watching, I should say wait 
 ing for you, just ages. You 've been taking a car 
 riage ride, haven't you?" 
 
 Corrie saw with some degree of curiosity, too, 
 that Miss Freedlark had doffed her hat and jacket, 
 and apparently was very much at home. 
 
 " I have been driving yes ! " she answered. 
 " Has Mrs. Pinchin come in ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; ages ago. But she 's gone out again. 
 You 're not to go out until she 's seen you. Now you 
 have n't told me yet who your swell friend is. Just 
 think of you riding in such an elegant turnout ! " 
 
 As Corrie drew off her gloves, she turned and laid 
 first one and then the other on the hall table, trying 
 quietly to evade the woman's vulgar prying. " Are 
 you staying to dinner? " she asked, looking up at 
 Miss Freedlark when she had straightened out her 
 gloves. 
 
 " Oh, yes. Mrs. Pinchin has asked me to visit her 
 a day or so maybe longer. Isn't it nice? I'm 
 sure we '11 get to be great friends, won't we? Now 
 17 257
 
 tell me all about your drive with that lovely girl. 
 Seems to me I 've met her, though I just can't place 
 her now." 
 
 " Possibly ; I can't say. Did Mrs. Pinchin say 
 when she would return? " 
 
 Corrie felt no possible interest in the moment when 
 Mrs. Pinchin might return. But anything to dodge 
 such persistent curiosity. " Will she be out late, 
 Miss Freedlark? " she inquired with a forced concern. 
 
 The curiosity that still stirred the woman to the 
 depths of her inquisitive nature was too potent, how 
 ever, to be turned aside by such a simple artifice as 
 this. 
 
 " Hey ? Oh, she '11 be in by and by. But you 're 
 not going to run away, are you ? " she asked in slight 
 astonishment, when Corrie had picked up her gloves 
 and was wandering slowly toward the stairs. " Why, 
 you have n't told me yet all about your lovely carriage 
 ride. Now, come; she's real fashionable, isn't she? 
 Don't you try to say she is n't ! " Miss Freedlark 
 wagged a bony finger at Corrie, and frowned play 
 fully. " Say," she questioned confidentially, with a 
 reviving spark of hope, " you 're not going to live 
 with her, are you ? A little bird tells me you 've got 
 a new place." 
 
 Biting her lip vexatiously, Corrie went on up the 
 stairs without troubling herself to answer. 
 
 In her room, Corrie dropped her things on a 
 chair and sank on the edge of her bed. Once more 
 she felt the reaction from the day's trying excite 
 ments, and twining her hands together, she sighed 
 
 258
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 with a deep inspiration, as if to free her breast from 
 its weight. Until now she had not stopped to reflect 
 on the probable or possible consequences of the many 
 disclosures what they meant or where they led. 
 What was in store for her ? what, when the climax 
 of these revelations came? The thought quickened in 
 her mind, bearing its vision of Mrs. Pinchin facing 
 the denouement cold ! tragic ! passionate ! en 
 raged, no doubt; or defiant and majestic, fighting 
 to the last the assault on her security. For, indeed, 
 what would Mrs. Pinchin do when she learned? A 
 little chill of fear swept through Corrie's heart at the 
 thought of it, a creeping terror bred to her long 
 association with the grim, unlovely, dark, and mas 
 terful woman, unloving and loveless, the incarnation 
 of a greed that would tread underfoot whoever stood 
 between her and her implacable self-indulgence. 
 
 But if Corrie were the Tollabee child, where was 
 the Tollabee fortune? Where were the Tollabee 
 lands? Where the Tollabee estate? The thought, 
 bred blindly, avalanched itself on the girl's mind with 
 all its dire significance. Mrs. Pinchin a thief ! a per 
 jurer! the embezzler of a dead man's goods and chat 
 tels ! The sudden creeping terror in Corrie's heart 
 grew to a ghastly coldness now. Pale and fright 
 ened, she gasped, her hand flying affrightedly to her 
 lips. All the repugnance and dread she had ever felt 
 for the woman arose now, magnified, terrifying, 
 complete, shaking her to the fiber of her soul. Her 
 heart beat thickly. The terror whose only thought is 
 flight gripped her fiercely. Then the relief came, 
 
 259
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 a doubt, a sickening reassurance of the absurdity of 
 her thoughts. Mrs. Pinchin a thief? Incredible! 
 Ridiculous! Outlandish! It was all a nightmare; 
 she had been deluded by hope ! Led astray ! It was 
 absurd to think of such a thing. 
 
 But if Mrs. Pinchin were only Mrs. Pinchin and 
 no one else, who, then, was Corrie? 
 
 " Oh my soul ! " moaned the girl, and dropped her 
 face into her hands. For doubt, bringing its relief, 
 had raised its own other terrors, too. 
 
 Sick with her depression, Corrie dressed herself 
 for dinner, an ordeal for which she was miserably 
 unprepared. To face Mrs. Pinchin at any moment 
 now seemed trying enough, but to undergo what she 
 felt surely must be in store for her, with that other 
 prying, vulgar woman looking on, was far more than 
 she could submit to calmly. However, there was no 
 way out of it, and turning down her lamp, Corrie 
 closed her door behind her, and slowly descended the 
 stairs. 
 
 Miss Freedlark came to meet her in the hall, more 
 exasperating than ever with her affability. " Well ! 
 I declare! What a long time it takes you to prink! 
 You must be expecting someone!" She smiled 
 archly, her narrow, fleshless face drawn by the grin 
 into a semblance of the naked humor of a skull. 
 "Now tell me right away all about him! I'm just 
 dying to hear the little secret ! " 
 
 Corrie stared at the woman gravely, her shadowy 
 eyes betraying no hint of her aversion and resent 
 ment. But the stare, neither insolent nor rebuking, 
 
 260
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 prolonged itself beyond the limit of mere careless 
 ness, so that the bony smirk faded uncertainly. Miss 
 Freedlark's geniality, however, was of a kind too bald 
 to be abashed by subtle methods, and again the wide 
 mouth confidently grinned its reassurance know 
 ing, officious, and impertinent. 
 
 " Oh, you lucky girl ! I 'm sure you 've caught a 
 beau who 's swagger and rich ! " 
 
 " Go into the drawing-room, Miss Freedlark. 
 Perhaps Mrs. Pinchin will come in shortly." 
 
 There was a pointedness in the rebuke now, to 
 which even Miss Freedlark's thick skin was scarcely 
 proof. Her face fell. " Why ! you 're not mad, are 
 you ? " she pleaded hastily. 
 
 " If you need anything, ring for the servants." 
 
 Deaf to the other's profuse murmurs, Corrie 
 stalked into the dining room, where Maggie, with a 
 lowering brow, was putting the last touches to the 
 dinner table. 
 
 " Do you know when Mrs. Pinchin is coming in, 
 Maggie? " 
 
 The maid raised her eyes sullenly. " Sure, all I 
 know is what orders she give. Dinner a half-hour 
 early, an* me an' all me work put out." 
 
 Maggie, with another scowl, slouched around to 
 the serving table and snatched up a dish of olives and 
 a sharp-tined fork. 
 
 " Can I help you? " suggested Corrie, hunting an 
 excuse to stay away from the drawing-room and its 
 inquisitive tenant. 
 
 Maggie jabbed an olive viciously with the fork. 
 261
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " I '11 not ask for any help. There '11 be enough 
 a'ready minowdering arount, an' a-puttin' in their 
 fingers." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " demanded Corrie, icily, 
 incensed at the suggested insolence. 
 
 " Ow ! beggin' yer pardon, ma'am ! On me sowl I 
 did n't mean you! " cried Maggie, alarmed that she 
 had been misunderstood ; " 't was that other wan 
 her wit' the bony face to her like yer knuckles." 
 
 " Maggie, you must n't talk like that. Miss Freed- 
 lark is a guest in this house." 
 
 " Ow ! Glory be ! An' her only on a visit ! Wad 
 you ever know the likes of that now? Sure, did n't she 
 come a-pokin' in here? And a-puttin' her face into 
 all the closets? And a-pullin' out av all the drawers? 
 And a-googlin' arount in the corners ? And a-wearin' 
 ye out wit' her questions ? ' Ow, is it this where ye 
 kape yer chiny?' and ' Ow, is it them where ye 
 kape yer preserves ? ' and ' Ow, 't is where ye 
 find the linen, ain't it, becowse 't will come handy like 
 av a day unbeknownst ! ' Ugh ! the fairies fly away 
 with the like of her ! " cried Maggie, her brogue 
 and her indignation growing apace. " A-prowlint 
 an' a-puttin' her nose into places, like she was an 
 owlt woman huntin' eggs av a morning in the cow- 
 byre." 
 
 " Maggie ! " this indignantly, though Corrie 
 found it difficult to stifle a smile. 
 
 " Ow ! well, an' what av that ? " Maggie trussed 
 her elbows to her sides, and leaned over with the 
 olives outstretched feelingly in one hand, and the
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 olive fork in the other. " Sure, an' wad n't she be 
 askin' me about yerself , too, an' - " 
 
 " Maggie ! " 
 
 " Oy ! an' ye can't stop me tellin' ye. A-askin' me, 
 did I know yer young man, an' what his name wad be, 
 
 " Maggie! Stop this instant ! " 
 
 " Oj yes ! " said Maggie, raising her voice a 
 little higher, " an' a-wantin' to know had ye run off 
 the day from Mrs. Pinchin to meet wit' him, an' - " 
 
 Corrie fled to the hall, crimson and infuriated. She 
 was enraged at Maggie! Enraged at the Freedlark 
 woman! Enraged at Mrs. Pinchin for bringing the 
 creature into the house to spy on her ! 
 
 " Sure an' would n't she an' was n't she 
 an' did n't she ? " Maggie's voice went on crying 
 after her. She did, an' - " 
 
 Then the front door opened, disclosing Mrs. 
 Pinchin. 
 
 Her face was haggard and of a leaden, sickly pal 
 lor, the corners of her mouth drawn back into the 
 mirthless, painful semblance of a grin. Her eyes, 
 always profound and gloomy, burned with a fiercer 
 moodiness than ever, and under the veil rolled up on 
 her bonnet in a wad, they gleamed forth with a fixed 
 and warning latency, as immobile and contemptuously 
 menacing as a snake's. 
 
 There was a bandbox in her hand. As she lurched 
 through the doorway, it caught on the woodwork, and 
 with a grunt and an ugly wrench she tore it free, her 
 stick clattering against the woodwork in her vehe- 
 
 263
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 mence. Freeing her latchkey from the lock, Mrs. 
 Pinchin slammed the door, and ponderously turned 
 around. Her eyes fell on Corrie. 
 
 What the bandbox contained Corrie was destined, 
 later on, to learn. Now it seemed to be only a band 
 box, a pasteboard case enclosing perhaps a hat a 
 new bonnet maybe a feather, one of the juvenile 
 plumes with which Mrs. Pinchin so loved to deck her 
 majestic crest. But the moment Mrs. Pinchin's eyes 
 clapped themselves on Corrie, the bandbox became 
 the object of Mrs. Pinchin's instant and pressing 
 concern. 
 
 She whirled it around till its label was concealed, 
 holding it behind her like a child with a stolen piece 
 of candy. Then she tried awkwardly to sidle up to 
 the door of her private room, as if to trim sheets 
 aft into that safe haven. But other eyes less guile 
 less than Corrie's were watching her, and at that 
 crucial moment, a piercing voice bugled gleefully 
 from the drawing-room : 
 
 " Oh ! here you are ! " 
 
 Silence answered the greeting. Miss Freedlark 
 charged gallantly closer to the line of danger. 
 
 " Oh ! you 've been shopping. You 've brought 
 something home." 
 
 Still silence. Mrs. Pinchin fished desperately in 
 her pocket for the key to her private room. The 
 bandbox was still held behind her. 
 
 " Oh ! it 's a hat ! I can see the edge of the box. 
 You 've been buying a hat ! " 
 
 A grim and minatory dumbness settled on Mrs. 
 264
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 Pinchin's face a stillness akin to that hush before 
 the bolt of lightning sluices earthward, bearing de 
 struction in the crash. 
 
 " Oh ! you must let me see it ! " cackled Miss 
 Freedlark, swooping archly at Mrs. Pinchin's secret 
 burden ; " I 'm j ust dying to see your new, pretty 
 little hat. Do let me have a peep ! " 
 
 " Mind your own business! " 
 
 So fell the lightning bolt, the Jovian lance! The 
 ripping, lash-like crack of the detonation burst 
 upon the appalled moment, crashed forte possibUe, 
 and stalked down to the horizons with a rumbling 
 thunder tread. " Ugh ! Hunh ! " grunted Mrs. 
 Pinchin. 
 
 That was all. Afterwards the living world sat up 
 and took stock of the casualties. The cloud from 
 which this rivening stroke had fallen hid itself from 
 view; for, leaning over the keyhole, Mrs. Pinchin 
 fumbled a moment with the lock, the door gave in, 
 and she disappeared. 
 
 Then like the stricken oak or would it be more 
 apt to take some other sylvan likeness? Mind, it is 
 Miss Freedlark who is pictured now but, like the 
 stricken oak, or maybe stricken poplar, or, likely as 
 not, some slim birch sapling, or, if you choose 
 better, a lank, attenuate ash like whichever you 
 choose of these, the victim raised a slightly singed 
 crest, after the bolt had passed, and looked to see 
 whether Earth still survived the destroyer. A slight 
 and perfectly uncomfortable shudder hunched up 
 her shoulders a trifle ; but 
 
 265
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Like some tall crag that lifts its awful form, 
 Rears from the vale, and midway leaves the storm," 
 
 and all the rest of it, Miss Freedlark, with a good 
 deal of discomfort to herself, managed to wring her 
 cadaverous features into an appeasing and benevolent 
 smile. The lightning, it appeared, had only chipped 
 the bark. " My ! " she exclaimed, looking at Corrie 
 with an arch twinkle in her pale, fawning eyes, 
 "wasn't it funny of her? just on account of a 
 little bandbox! Now, if we weren't such good 
 friends ! " 
 
 A deep and sincere pity for the woman sprang im 
 pulsively into Corrie's heart. She read behind the 
 arch twinkle of the pale, fawning eyes ; saw through 
 the sprightly affectation of carelessness by which the 
 victim tried miserably to screen her hurt ; and suffer 
 ing for the woman's poorly hidden shame, the girl 
 generously forgot the past hour's vulgarity, the pry 
 ing, the low-bred, inquisitive effort to delve into her 
 affairs. Poor thing! Corrie was little more than a 
 child, yet she owned the quick divination that trouble 
 gives to one to detect another's sufferings. Miss 
 Freedlark writhed, and she saw it. 
 
 " Oh ! I am so sorry. You must n't feel hurt at 
 what she said, Miss Freedlark. Mrs. Pinchin really 
 did n't mean it," she cried, though she was quite cer 
 tain, of course, that Mrs. Pinchin did mean it. 
 " She 's just irritable because she 's tired out. Oh, 
 I am so sorry for you ! " 
 
 A wave of color swept up into the woman's face, 
 and her eyes took on a contemptuous hardness. " In- 
 
 266
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 deed ! " she exclaimed acidly, and opened her lips to 
 continue in the same sneering tone, when the door 
 behind her opened, and Mrs. Pinchin emerged. 
 
 She had discarded her hat and coat, and once more 
 her face had assumed its ordinary dark and moody 
 solemnity. She ignored Corrie, and, as if regretful 
 for her show of temper, spoke to Miss Frecdlark in 
 a tone that, if not cheerful, was at least restrained 
 and civil. 
 
 " I '11 be down in a moment. Will you step in the 
 parlor till I dress for dinner? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, indeed ! You must n't bother about me" 
 answered Miss Freedlark, mollified and ready to fawn 
 again. 
 
 At the stairs Mrs. Pinchin turned and gazed at 
 Corrie, the glance sweeping her from head to foot. 
 " I want a few words with you, girl," she rumbled, 
 peering out from under her shaggy brows. 
 
 Another scene, thought Corrie, as she followed 
 silently in Mrs. Pinchin's wake, wondering what turn 
 it was to take. But why should she care, no matter 
 what Mrs. Pinchin said or did? Only a few hours 
 now, and she would be free free of Mrs. Pinchin 
 and her oppression free, no matter what she found 
 out about herself free, whether she had a name or 
 not, whether nameless or known. 
 
 " Now," said Mrs. Pinchin, suddenly, after closing 
 the door behind her, "I want to know what you're 
 up to!" 
 
 She planted her stick on the carpet, and gazed 
 at Corrie, her face filled with solemnity. More 
 
 267
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 than ever, she looked massive and masterful, royal, 
 almost, as she stood upright with her great head 
 thrown back on her shoulders. " You must tell me," 
 she commanded sternly, " for I wish to know." 
 
 Corrie watched her curiously. Impressed by Mrs. 
 Pinchin's majestic calm, she felt a sudden unexpected 
 terror that she herself was the one to be judged, 
 rather than the woman who now stood facing her 
 with a quiet dignity of resentment. Swiftly at work, 
 the girl's mind harked back to the recent happenings, 
 to this conspiracy directed at her, who, as well as 
 not, might be innocent, even unsuspecting, of all with 
 which she had been charged on evidence that was really 
 only suspicion. No! the charge seemed incredible. 
 Mrs. Pinchin's eyes, proudly unwavering, still quietly 
 searched the girl's face, and Corrie moistened her lips. 
 
 " You do not answer me," murmured Mrs. Pinchin, 
 in a subdued voice. 
 
 There was nothing for Corrie to answer. Swayed 
 by the new view of her own conduct, a guilty inter 
 pretation now of her duplicity, her eyes dropped 
 before the calm, scrutinous face that seemed to peer 
 deep into her breast's secret depths. 
 
 " A letter was brought to you at my door, to-day ; 
 you went out afterwards," said Mrs. Pinchin, in an 
 even, unaccusing voice ; " will you tell me where it 
 was from where you went? While you are under 
 my roof and in my charge, I have a right to know 
 how you conduct yourself." 
 
 Repressed, dignified still, and apparently un 
 affected, Mrs. Pinchin awaited the answer to a ques- 
 
 268
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 tion manifestly reasonable. Corrie lifted her troubled 
 face, uneasy and almost fearful, all other feelings for 
 or against Mrs. Pinchin now abdicated to a new-born 
 sense of respect. In it, too, was almost admiration. 
 
 " I would rather not tell you I can't, Mrs. 
 Pinchin," she answered gently ; " I can't because it 
 would betray a confidence. The letter was from a 
 friend." 
 
 "A friend? Girl, what friends have you?" re 
 torted Mrs. Pinchin, with no shade of mockery in 
 the question. 
 
 " Almost none one or two, perhaps, Mrs. 
 Pinchin." 
 
 " Friends ! " repeated the majestic figure, solemnly, 
 with an echo close to a grave pity hidden behind the 
 word. " Friends and have you thought, perhaps, 
 that these friends of yours may be making you a 
 catspaw? Have you suspected they may be using 
 you for their own ends? I am not sure who your 
 friends may be, but I might guess I might guess," 
 she muttered hollowly, a thought reflected in her 
 eyes. " Well," she said painfully, as if she mused, 
 " it was to be expected. It was the thing that might 
 be looked for." She stared down at the floor, as if 
 some thought had started another train of thoughts. 
 " No," she added with a quick look at Corrie, her 
 voice rolling deeply, with a force of hidden signifi 
 cance ; " I 've tried my best. I 've done all I could, 
 but you are bound to have your way. Go on, girl," 
 she murmured, her head raised again to humble Corrie 
 with its pride and injured dignity; "let nothing 
 
 269
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 stand in your way till you have learned. And then, 
 when you have found out what you are seeking, 
 perhaps I shall have room in my heart to pity 
 you!" 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Pinchin ! Why do you say that ? " 
 
 The majestic figure swung alertly toward her. 
 
 " Tell me, then ! " cried Mrs. Pinchin, dominantly ; 
 " who is it that is egging you on? " 
 
 Corrie shrank back from her, once more hanging 
 her head. 
 
 A grim silence followed. Mrs. Pinchin, with her 
 jaws working together, hobbled toward her dressing- 
 table, her back turned to Corrie. 
 
 " You can go now. I 've had my say ! " she 
 growled, after the pause, and with her back still 
 turned, waved meaningly toward the door. " Go ! " 
 Thus dismissed, Corrie took herself from the 
 room. 
 
 Twenty minutes later the muffled thump of Mrs. 
 Pinchin's cane sounded on the stairs as she ponder 
 ously descended. She still wore her morning attire, 
 the waist and skirt of heavy black brocade, and in 
 her hand was clutched the vial of smelling-salts. 
 " Come ! " she grumbled, appearing at the drawing- 
 room door ; " dinner 's on the table." 
 
 Corrie, fumbling over the music on the piano, 
 jumped up from the stool. Across the room, Miss 
 Freedlark, who had been traveling about, industri 
 ously handling the ornaments and staring at all the 
 pictures, turned with a set smile and followed. 
 
 " Can't I give you an arm, my dear? " she pleaded 
 270
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 with Mrs. Pinchin ; " you 've had such a long day 
 of it!" 
 
 " No ! " rumbled Mrs. Pinchin, stumping onward 
 alone. She reached the dining room; and, without 
 waiting for anyone's aid, dragged out her chair, 
 and fell into it heavily. Her eyes, lowering, pored 
 on the cloth before her ; and when Maggie set down 
 her plate of soup, Mrs. Pinchin stared at it dully, as 
 if for once her devotion to the love of eating had 
 become a secondary thought. Then, when she had 
 picked up her spoon, Mrs. Pinchin stirred her soup 
 listlessly awhile, gulped a mouthful, and aimlessly 
 went on stirring. Presently she laid the spoon on 
 the plate's edge, and leaning back in her seat, began 
 absorbedly fingering her napkin. 
 
 But however the hostess showed her listlessness and 
 preoccupation, Miss Freedlark more than made up 
 for it. Her animation was distracting; her chatter 
 endless and versatile. Unaffected by the grim figure 
 dreaming moodily at the table's head, Mrs. Pinchin's 
 guest soared away into genial flights of small talk, 
 as if bound to make herself agreeable. She praised 
 the soup, sipping it with a little finger stiffened into 
 elegant rigidity. She praised the olives, the celery, 
 and the radishes. Doubtless, she would have praised 
 the salt, too, in turn, if the coming of the fish had not 
 distracted her attention. Then she praised the fish 
 and the crisp potato chips with it. She praised the 
 tartar sauce that was passed to her by Maggie, and 
 when a muttered " hunh ! " warned her she had dwelt 
 too elaborately on the subject, she changed her praise 
 
 271
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 to something else of Mrs. Pinchin's. Meanwhile the 
 dreamer at the table's head played listlessly with her 
 fork, never so much as looking up when the fish was 
 whisked away untasted. 
 
 But to talk, to ramble on whether heard or unheard, 
 seemed enough to entertain the guest. Corrie looked 
 at her thoughtfully, and then as thoughtfully at Mrs. 
 Pinchin. The somber figure had now taken to rolling 
 her bread into pellets, a task she occasionally varied 
 by grasping a knife and fork and half-heartedly pick 
 ing at the roast meat and vegetables before her. At 
 the salad, Miss Freedlark's obligate of unceasing 
 chatter had rounded up into the topic of society 
 not that society which embraces massed civilization, 
 but the society which is ever dignified with a capital S 
 in the minds of those who interminably chatter and 
 write about it. 
 
 The smug, toadying phrases of the sect rang in 
 Miss Freedlark's speech, a Rabelaisian glossary of 
 glib terms and phrases common to such women's talk. 
 There were junctions, whatever she meant by that, 
 and they were inevitably charming. There were wed 
 dings, always at high noon; never at low, vulgar 
 midday. She spoke of soirees, and one suspected 
 she meant those mediaeval evening receptions that 
 still persist on the West Side. Their hostesses 
 ranked as society leaders, and then they all sat 
 down to a collation. It was a swagger evening, one 
 learned from Miss Freedlark, and everything was just 
 recherchee! But through it all the dark, stony vis 
 age at the table's head sat plunged in dark, self- 
 
 272
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 absorbed rumination, the heavy eyes looking up, and 
 the massive frame stirring only when the chatter 
 pitched itself into sudden, ecstatic shrillness. 
 
 Presently the flow of words swept toward the upper 
 realms of the chosen field of inspiration. Miss Freed- 
 lark mentioned other names, and they were the names 
 of bona fide gods and goddesses of the worshiped 
 Olympus, not petty imitators mured away in the side 
 streets, where they ate out their hearts in envious 
 apings of that other set. She mentioned the real 
 thing. The Four Hundred ! The Upper Ten ! ! The 
 Big Bugs ! ! ! The Nobs ! The Toffs ! The Regular 
 Swells ! The kind that she would have more than 
 eaten her heart out to know ! The kind Mrs. Pinchin, 
 too, had tried desperately to reach and had never 
 known how to do it. The heavy eyes raised them 
 selves ; the talker saw that moment's gleam of in 
 terest, and rose to it inspiredly, naming other gods 
 and goddesses not only by their names, but by their 
 nicknames, too. It was Mame-this and Sallie-that. 
 It was Fannie and Tessie and Lou. Their brothers 
 and lovers and husbands were Tom-this and Dick- 
 that and Harry-whatnot. Poor soul! The woman 
 seemed to live on it, rolling the names with an unctu 
 ous familiarity under her tongue, and prostrating 
 herself in worship of her idols. Mrs. Pinchin stared 
 at her, as if enthralled ; then her shoulders quivered 
 with an uncontrolled shrug of irritation. Once she 
 moistened her lips, curling them into a sneer. A 
 little later she grunted. Miss Freedlark kept on, 
 absorbed now, for her own sake, in the orgy of re- 
 18 273
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 created visions. A change swept over Mrs. Pinchin's 
 moodiness. 
 
 " Hunh ! " she drawled, her face convulsed into a 
 shocking leer of contempt ; " personal friends of 
 yours, ain't they? Know 'em all intimately, I guess." 
 
 Miss Freedlark's mouth opened. Speech was smit 
 ten from her as if in punishment of uttering sacred 
 names in vain. She blushed furiously ; then the color 
 drifted out of her skin, and a startling pallor 
 blenched it. The insult had found its mark; it had 
 been chosen with a savage cruelty, nicely calculated 
 to stab the victim to the quick. Miss Freedlark, 
 squelched, buried her eyes in her lap. 
 
 Smiling beneath her scowl, Mrs. Pinchin pushed 
 back her chair, and arose, ignoring her withered 
 guest as she turned to Corrie. 
 
 " Go see whether there 's a hack at the door. Not 
 my own carriage, but a hack." 
 
 The girl sped from the room, glad to get away 
 from the barbarous scene. Mrs. Pinchin, relapsed 
 into her ugly humor of silence, followed her into the 
 hallway, and stood waiting with a hand on the stair 
 rail. The faint smile still curled her lips mockingly 
 under the scowl, and once she looked over her shoulder 
 contemptuously, as if to stare at the dumbed victim 
 of her rage a wrath that seemed trembling to the 
 brim in Mrs. Pinchin's soul. 
 
 "Oh! Oh! Oh!" whispered Corrie to herself. 
 " And she stood it ! How could she? " 
 
 " Hurry up, you ! " croaked Mrs. Pinchin, shaking 
 her stick ; " is the hack there ? " 
 
 274
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 Corrie looked out through the glass of the vesti 
 bule. " Yes, Mrs. Pinchin. There 's a carriage at 
 the door." 
 
 But oh! oh! thought Corrie; how could the wo 
 man swallow an insult such as that, and not resent it? 
 
 " You coming upstairs with me, Miss Freedlark? " 
 grunted Mrs. Pinchin over her shoulder ; " I 've got 
 some work for you." 
 
 Then Corrie knew; Miss Freedlark, too, was a 
 paid servitor in that house, and had already felt the 
 penalty. 
 
 But why had Miss Freedlark been engaged? What 
 had become of Miss Maria, too? Where was Mrs. 
 Pinchin going in a public carriage at that hour of 
 the night? On other nights, when Mrs. Pinchin had 
 gone forth, either to the theatre, to a concert, per 
 haps to her social grubbing, she had gone invariably 
 in her own equipage. A rising wind rattled at the 
 windows, and Corrie, in the drawing-room now, peered 
 out at the sky. Overhead a dull skim of vapor 
 leadenly reflected the city's blaze of light. Shortly 
 it would rain. Mrs. Pinchin was going to brave the 
 coming storm and why ? 
 
 Ten minutes later, the two women came down the 
 stairs ; Mrs. Pinchin in the lead, Miss Freedlark fol 
 lowing mutely at her heels. In Mrs. Pinchin's hand, 
 and half concealed by her flowing wrap, was a round 
 package wrapped in heavy paper, the bandbox, as 
 Corrie saw. She made no effort to hold it out of 
 sight; nor could she, hampered as she was with her 
 stick and the box in one hand, the other hand fully 
 
 275
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 employed in clinging to the stair rail. " Hey ! a 
 quarter of eight? " she exclaimed in a startled tone, 
 as she looked up at the clock ; " I must hurry. Take 
 those things down to the carriage, Miss Freedlark." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin's new assistant was heavily laden. 
 Under one arm were two or three small bundles ; in 
 the other was a large pasteboard box such as tailors 
 use, the same size and kind of box with which Mrs. 
 Pinchin had burdened herself the day before. Where 
 was Mrs. Pinchin going now with that box, and 
 where had she gone with the other? More riddles! 
 More puzzles ! More mysteries ! 
 
 At the door the commanding figure halted, turned, 
 and leveled her stick at Corrie. She stared for a 
 moment under her thick brows, and then noisily 
 cleared her throat. 
 
 " Now, no tricks while I 'm away. Do you hear? " 
 
 Shaking her stick in impressive warning, she lum 
 bered through the doorway and was gone; and on 
 the heels of her departure a flaw of rain burst pat 
 tering on the glass vestibule. 
 
 The door of the waiting carriage slammed; there 
 was a clatter of hoofs and a passing rumble of wheels. 
 Mrs. Pinchin had set forth on her mission, wherever 
 her destination and whatever it all signified. In the 
 hall the front door clicked on its latch as Miss Freed 
 lark softly closed it behind her, and then the lady 
 herself appeared. 
 
 She shuddered slightly as she entered the drawing- 
 room, shivering, as if chilled by the inclement night. 
 The moisture sparkled in her hair, her face was 
 
 276
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 peaked and downcast, and on the tip of Miss Freed- 
 lark's large, prominent nose, a drop of rain still 
 hung pendulously. It required only a glance to show 
 that Mrs. Pinchin had kept her standing out in the 
 rain until she was pretty thoroughly drenched. 
 
 " You are wet through, Miss Freedlark," said Cor- 
 rie, going over to her ; " can't I get you something 
 dry to put on ? " 
 
 "Me? Oh, I ain't sugar, so that I '11 melt." 
 She looked at Corrie with a covert suspiciousness, and 
 began feeling her wet shoulders with a concern that 
 belied the careless answer. *' What do you do with 
 yourself, evenings ?" she asked with an affected un- 
 interest. " Did you intend going out to-night? " 
 
 But notwithstanding her assumed unconcern and 
 the idle tone of her question, Miss Freedlark was 
 unable to hide the shrewd interest glittering in the 
 corner of her eye. 
 
 " No," answered Corrie, with a growing knowl 
 edge of the truth, a guess at the reason for Miss 
 Freedlark's presence in the house ; " I had no idea 
 of going out. Did Mrs. Pinchin say she thought I 
 was?" 
 
 " Hey ? She ? Oh why, no ! " exclaimed 
 Miss Freedlark, startled. She leaned over and tried 
 ruefully to brush the dampness from her skirt. 
 " Why, I 'm wetter than I thought," she murmured. 
 " Maybe you had better let me have something dry. 
 I'm just sopping." 
 
 " Very well ; I '11 send one of the maids with the 
 clothes. You 're in Miss Maria's room, are n't you? " 
 
 277
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Corrie got a wrapper and a pair of slippers out 
 of the closet on the top floor. They were Mrs. 
 Pinchin's, a part of that lady's discarded belongings, 
 and the closet was filled, like every other spare corner 
 of the house, with just such things. For whatever 
 Mrs. Pinchin could not pass on to Corrie or Miss 
 Maria, she thriftily stored away with a jackdaw's 
 covetousness. 
 
 Corrie rang for a maid, and Maggie appeared, 
 growling at having to climb the stairs. 
 
 " Maggie, take these things down to Miss Freed- 
 lark. She 's in Miss Maria's room." 
 
 " Oh, an' did she get soaked? " grunted Maggie, 
 with a frank smile. " Sure, for all av me, I 'd let 
 her to be drownded in her own boots." 
 
 Corrie opened the door of her room. " And say 
 to her I 've gone to bed, Maggie. Please be sure not 
 to forget." 
 
 Locking herself in, Corrie hurriedly undressed. 
 To get into bed and to go to sleep would be the best 
 way both to avoid Miss Freedlark's company and to 
 forget the dispiritedness that had come over her. 
 For there was no longer any doubt now ; Miss Freed- 
 lark had been brought there to watch and to spy 
 over her; she was certain of that. 
 
 She was lowering her light, when she thought sud 
 denly of the album. There might be no chance to 
 get it in the morning, if her spy were still on guard ; 
 she must get it now. But while Corrie debated un 
 decidedly the stair creaked; she heard someone 
 coming, and who that someone was, Corrie had n't 
 
 278
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 the slightest doubt. Out went the light, and into her 
 bed popped the girl, and lay listening. 
 
 " It 's me, my dear. Have you really and truly 
 gone to bed? " 
 
 A muffled voice assured Miss Freedlark that such 
 was the case. 
 
 " Oh, I 'm so sorry ! I came up to have a nice 
 little cosy chat with you." 
 
 The cosy chat, however, had to be deferred, just 
 as Corrie had decided to defer all the other of Miss 
 Freedlark's premeditated chats, cosy or otherwise. 
 
 " Well, if you say so. But I think you 're real 
 disappointing." 
 
 The footfalls departed; the stairs creaked once 
 again; a silence fell on the upper regions of Mrs. 
 Pinchin's home. 
 
 Corrie felt too worn out to get up again and light 
 the light. She shrugged down among the pillows, an 
 arm above her head in an attitude of repose, and 
 stared thoughtfully into the dark. But it was not 
 of Mrs. Pinchin that she thought. Nor was it of 
 Corrie Who? and Corrie What? Neither that, nor 
 the other nebulous dreams of the past, obscure and 
 tantalizing in their haziness. Perhaps it was of 
 something else someone else? But the thought 
 that came to Corrie was not a thought cloaked in 
 the usual roseate panoply of love's young dream. 
 There arose in her mind the visual image of that 
 moment when she lay in his arms, her face upturned 
 to his and his lips hovering so close to her own. She 
 felt her heart leap, as it had leaped then. In memory, 
 
 279
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 his softening eyes swam down to hers ; in memory, 
 the arm curled above her head slowly moved and with 
 her other arm, together stretched out into the dark 
 toward him. There they poised an instant wa 
 vered then fell in despair to her side. 
 
 For love's young dream had snatched itself away 
 gone withered in the blighting knowledge again 
 that it was nothing but a dream. 
 
 For not even a name was hers to bring him. Poor 
 Corrie ! 
 
 The hours passed. In the house's remoter depths 
 the hall clock chimed the measured intervals of time, 
 and the girl, stretched miserably in her bed, one by 
 one counted the hours wakefully. Midnight struck. 
 The boom of the deep-toned chime below ceased, and 
 stillness followed, a profound moment, as if night 
 waited hushed, a finger on its lips. Corrie stirred 
 restlessly on her pillows. Her ear, with that strained 
 intentness of one unable to sleep, engaged itself with 
 every little noise ; the creaking of the floor, the tick 
 ing of her mantel clock, the whisper of the rain on 
 her window pane, or a sudden rattle of the glass itself 
 as a gust surged against it. A train on the L 
 road clattered past, its startling burst of sound 
 drowning all other sounds as it drew by the street 
 end. A moment later came a Columbus Avenue sur 
 face car, a flat wheel under its trucks pounding out 
 a staccato, jeering refrain, disposed to murder even 
 sounder sleep. Afterward followed a belated car 
 riage, its horses' shoes clicking sharply on the wet 
 asphalt. Then the carriage, the car, and the L 
 
 280
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 train passed into the distance. The silence fell anew, 
 more profound, more hushed and pervasive than be 
 fore a silence all the more still and solemn because 
 of its creeping undernote, the creak of the floors, 
 the small, deliberate ticking of the clock, the whisper 
 of the rainflaws tinkling on the pane. 
 
 Corrie leaped upright, her eyes distended. An 
 other sound! She heard it distinctly. Somewhere 
 in the darkened halls below, the floor creaked not 
 once, but beneath a cautious tread. There it was 
 again! Throwing back the covers, the girl sat up, 
 her knees beneath her, and caught at her breath 
 while she listened. 
 
 It came again. Drawing her nightdress about her 
 throat, she slipped from the bed to the floor. Who 
 walked below there in the darkened house? Corrie 
 battled with the instant's panic; she must know. 
 Cautiously, one foot trying the floor before her, she 
 crept to the door. Her hand, feeling along the 
 panels, found the key. With no betraying sound she 
 gently drew the door open, and peered into the bulked 
 gloom of the hallway. 
 
 Against the background of the stair-well a faint, 
 swaying glow diffused itself and then withdrew. 
 Silence established itself throughout the house again, 
 yet the girl listening at her door was aware of a 
 living thing below, guardedly moving in the dark. 
 
 Again the light ! it was stronger now. The 
 shadows writhed themselves into fantastic, dancing 
 shapes leaping monstrously; and a tread of the 
 stairs creaked! Someone was on the stair! Shut- 
 
 281
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 ting the door a little closer, the girl peered breath 
 lessly through the crack, her lips apart, and her 
 nostrils quivering, every nerve strung in torturing 
 expectancy. Who came? The shadows, capering 
 wildly, fled away before the growing luminescence; 
 the bulked darkness of the upper hall narrowed to 
 visible wall and ceiling, and still the light advanced, 
 its reflection swaying drunkenly on the background 
 of plaster. Then a hand appeared, a massive claw 
 holding aloft a candle; a head raised itself on the 
 stairway, and turned to stare along the level of the 
 floor. 
 
 The candle's flame, guttering and unsteady, threw 
 but a fickle light on the face of the prowling in 
 truder. Who was it? In the pasty, staring white 
 ness of that mask two fixed eyes were set like holes 
 burned in a paper scroll; the chin had fallen, and 
 the mouth, abjectly loose and debile, hung open, 
 working like the maw of a gasping fish. Then the 
 eyes rolled upward to the whites, and through the 
 night's stillness a stifled, choking whimper breathed, 
 shrill in its utterance of misery. 
 
 It was Mrs. Pinchin, and she wept ! 
 
 A moment passed. The taper, flickering in the 
 unsteady hand, moved from side to side, and was held 
 higher, as the two sunken eyes glared into the dark 
 ness ahead, striving to pierce the shadows. They 
 leveled themselves on the door at the hall's end, and 
 the watcher lurking behind it shrank back dismayed. 
 But Mrs. Pinchin moved on unaware. The candle was 
 lifted a little higher; the bulky figure lurched itself 
 
 282
 
 THE SOBBING ON THE STAIRS 
 
 upward another step. A sob racked her, and she 
 rolled back her head, her face glistening humidly in 
 the candlelight wet soaking soaking wet. 
 
 For through the night's rain, it appeared, and 
 unsheltered, unprotected, Mrs. Pinchin had come to 
 prowl at midnight. Her turban, wound round with 
 a rope of pulpy veiling, had sunk upon her head in 
 a ruin of dripping silk and velvet; and beneath the 
 wreck her hair escaped, streaming in dank, corded 
 wisps against her face. Step by step, she heaved her 
 self upward to the stair end, and there halted, one 
 griping hand sprawling upon her mouth. 
 
 " Urh ! " she whispered, the moan wrung from her 
 with all the profound debility of a soul in torture. 
 " Ur-r-rh ! Ur-r-rh ! Oh, my GOD ! " 
 
 Great tears rolled down her cheeks, as she dropped 
 her hand from her mouth. She turned, and with her 
 streaming skirts flapping against her limbs, dragged 
 herself along by the balustrade. For an instant, the 
 girl quaking behind the door, thought the groping 
 figure headed toward her. But reaching the door of 
 the garret room, where all the discarded flotsam and 
 jetsam of her household was stored, Mrs. Pinchin laid 
 her hand on the knob, raised her candle overhead, and 
 slowly disappeared. 
 
 "Oh! she knows!" gasped Corrie; and press 
 ing her own door to, she turned and thrust all her 
 weight against it. 
 
 But that creeping night-prowler beyond had no 
 thought of molesting her. Through the panel came 
 to the girl only the echo of the guarded, creeping feet. 
 
 283
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 The rasp of a slyly opened drawer sounded once; 
 after a pause, the drawer was as slyly closed; and 
 the secret, wary feet came stealing back to the hall 
 again, patiently slow in their wariness. Then, once 
 more again once again the stifled, mouselike 
 whisper of Mrs. Pinchin's misery keened thinly in the 
 silence; and daring all, the girl drew back the door 
 and looked. 
 
 It was as she had guessed. Mrs. Pinchin, her 
 candle held aloft, was dragging herself down the stair 
 way, the album clasped in her arm. 
 
 284
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Beginning another day after an eventful night. M r. Stanton 
 arrives early. His rebuff of the jingle-scribbler. 
 Corrie determines on flight. Mrs. Pinchin tries on 
 a dress. Miss Freedlark in her true colors. Corrie' s 
 denunciation of the spy. Mrs. Pinchin's dramatic 
 threat to tell Carrie's history to Phil. She admits she 
 knows who her companion really is. 
 
 A WILD impulse came instantly to pursue the 
 marauder to regain by force of arms the 
 stolen album. She sprang forward, the cry almost on 
 her lips ; then terror prevailed, for all in a moment, 
 she recalled the face of pasty, staring whiteness the 
 eyes burning in that ghastly mask the terrible 
 passion of misery voiced in Mrs. Pinchin's whimper 
 ing sobs. Her knees, weakening, gave beneath her, 
 and she clung to the door for support, blindly fum 
 bling until she found the key and turned it. For what 
 if the creeping figure lurched up the stair again, and 
 divined of the watcher spying on her ? Corrie slipped 
 across the floor to her bed, quaking as the springs 
 creaked to her weight, and dragged the covers around 
 her. She shivered. She was chilled from her long 
 vigil at the door frozen by her terrors, too. And 
 what could be done now? The album was gone, the 
 one thing she counted on as a link between the known 
 and the unknown gone, never to be regained. Mrs. 
 Pinchin had it and that was the last of it. For in 
 
 285 

 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Corrie's breast, the terror of Mrs. Pinchin now had 
 risen to a deep and terrible respect. She shuddered, 
 cravenly submissive in her fear. 
 
 That was a wakeful night at Mrs. Pinchin's for 
 the girl ; perhaps for others, too. Along toward the 
 dawn Corrie's heavy eyes closed in fitful sleep; she 
 tossed among the pillows, starting at every sound, her 
 uneasy drowsing troubled with dire visions. Still, 
 she slept, lightly first, and afterwards in the fast, 
 drugged unconsciousness of mental and physical 
 fatigue. Then a knock sounded on her door; it was 
 the waitress, Maggie, warning her that half-past 
 seven had come ; that another day had begun. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin's closed door stared at Corrie as she 
 came down the stairs; Mrs. Pinchin absented her 
 self from the breakfast table. But Miss Freedlark 
 was present, with an early morning, unaffected 
 sprightliness in quick contrast to poor Corrie's pale 
 dejection. As if blissfully unaware of the girl's ab 
 sorbed quietness, she prattled away condescendingly, 
 arrogant again, now that Mrs. Pinchin was not there 
 to repress her; free and easy in her officious self- 
 assertiveness. Indeed, her confidence reached the 
 point where she no longer made any bones of hiding 
 her employment in the house. " You know, my dear, 
 it would n't surprise me in the least, if I was to be 
 with you quite a little while." This confession she 
 accompanied by another of her bony smirks, another 
 of the swanlike curvettings of her scraggy neck. 
 " Would n't it be just fine for us if I was? " she sug 
 gested, in this manner affably including Corrie in her 
 
 286
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S THREAT 
 
 own patent satisfaction. " What chums we 'd be, 
 would n't we ? Well, we '11 be that anyway, even if 
 you do have to leave. You '11 find me a splendid play 
 mate just splendid!" cried Miss Freedlark, in a 
 perfect rhapsody. " Yes ! now won't it be fine 
 and, by the by, you and that friend of yours you 
 know the one I mean the one that was with you 
 yesterday. Some day when I am not busy, you and 
 she must come and take me out for a ride in her pretty 
 carriage. What did you say was her name? " asked 
 Miss Freedlark, spryly. 
 
 There was no way by which Corrie could very well 
 dodge so point blank an attack. Silence would not 
 aid her ; for Miss Freedlark had leaned forward with 
 a mincing smile, attentive, perhaps insistent. But 
 Corrie's eyes, roaming about helplessly, caught a 
 swift glance from Maggie, the waitress. 
 
 " Mush? " demanded Maggie, and thrust the dish 
 under Miss Freedlark's face. 
 
 "Eh oh-h what-say? I haven't finished 
 what I have." 
 
 As Corrie gulped the last of her coffee, she was 
 aware of Maggie poised behind Miss Freedlark with 
 her face spread in a wide and delighted, impudent 
 grin. Corrie had no appetite; she would have fled, 
 anyway. 
 
 Drifting down the hall, she wandered into the 
 drawing-room. The shades were up ; the night's rain 
 had passed, and all the world outside sparkled in the 
 glare of sunshine. But there was no sunlight or 
 sparkle in the girl's leaden breast. Hopelessly cer- 
 
 287
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 tain that Mrs. Pinchin held the whip-hand at every 
 turn, convinced that her own efforts were in vain, she 
 was ready to give up the struggle all the more 
 ready when she remembered her oppressor's signifi 
 cant words of the night before, the warning that if 
 Corrie persisted, there would be an awakening such as 
 she had never dreamed. But why had Mrs. Pinchin 
 stolen the album, just as she had stolen everything 
 else from Corrie? Why had Mrs. Pinchin done that 
 unless there were some vital, powerful reason to make 
 away with it? And how had she learned its secret 
 hiding place? Corrie caught her breath. Had the 
 Freedlark woman been responsible? Had the spy, 
 paid to watch her, smelled it out? The girl's wrath 
 sprang up at the thought, raged a moment, and 
 then burned itself away. What did it matter, after 
 all? Corrie, listlessly ruminating, was turning away 
 from the window through which she had been star 
 ing morosely, when a hansom cab rattled up to the 
 curb and drew rein at Mrs. Pinchin's door. 
 
 Mr. Stanton again, and once more in un-Chester- 
 fieldian hurry ! 
 
 Before the cab had come to a halt, his foot was on 
 the sidewalk and he was hurrying towards the steps. 
 Corrie, seeing him, tried to shrink behind the cur 
 tains unseen, but Mr. Stanton detected the move 
 ment. He looked up, and when he saw who it was, 
 for the least possible fraction of a second, Mr. Stan- 
 ton halted irresolutely. Then, with a faint, derisive 
 grin, he came on up the steps, and the girl heard the 
 rattle of his key in the latch. 
 
 288
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S THREAT 
 
 " Ah ! the dear young girl ! " cried Mr. Stanton 
 with his usual, subtle mockery, as Corrie tried to 
 hurry away from him down the hall. " Are you really 
 hastening off without a ' Good morning,' even ? " 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Stanton," answered Corrie, 
 dully. 
 
 " Come ; now that 's much more cheerful ! " de 
 clared Mr. Stanton, benignly. " Let 's shake hands 
 on it, too," he suggested, and solemnly extended his 
 own, as he advanced towards her. 
 
 " You wish to see Mrs. Pinchin, don't you ? " 
 Corrie inquired, ignoring the outstretched hand. 
 " I '11 send word to her that you are here." 
 
 Though Mr. Stanton had appeared to be in a 
 towering hurry at first, he now seemed a little less 
 in haste. Corrie, already at the stairs, stood with 
 her hand on the balusters, and reaching forward, Mr. 
 Stanton, with an unexpected movement, grasped it 
 caressingly. " Why are you running away ? Not 
 vexed with me, are you, my dear? " he asked plain 
 tively, and tried again to press her fingers gently. 
 
 It was while Corrie was struggling to snatch her 
 hand away that a third figure introduced itself 
 into the tableau; namely, Miss Freedlark, whose 
 brows raised themselves in knowing significance, as if 
 realizing the state of affairs. 
 
 " Oh ! I trust I don't intrude ! " she exclaimed, with 
 an indulgent shyness meant to suit what she had 
 romantically conceived the situation to be. 
 
 Corrie, flushing shamefuly, dragged away her 
 hand, and Mr. Stanton turned. If he recognized Miss 
 19 289
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Freedlark, there was no hint of the knowledge in his 
 elevated brow in the cool inquiry of his gray, 
 supercilious eye. Corrie seized the moment's oppor 
 tunity to run up the stairs, but at the floor above 
 she was unable to resist the inclination to hear what 
 happened below. 
 
 " Oh, how do you do, Mr. Stanton ! " Miss Freed 
 lark gurgled ; and then, perhaps because of the blank 
 indifference of Mr. Stanton's expression, " Don't you 
 remember me? I'm Miss Freedlark!" 
 
 " Miss Freedlark? ah, to be sure! " echoed Mr. 
 Stanton, with no awakening response in either tone 
 or manner. 
 
 " Why, don't you remember ? I met you in the 
 drawing-room. Mrs. Pinchin introduced us. I read 
 a poem." 
 
 Mr. Stanton delicately combed his silky side whis 
 kers through his finger tips. " A poetess ! why, 
 fancy ! " he drawled leisurely. " And since when did 
 Mrs. Pinchin attach a poetess to her retinue, may I 
 be tempted to inquire ? " 
 
 It must have been his tone, rather than his words 
 themselves, that awoke the woman to the insolence of 
 the question. Like all other impertinently prying 
 natures, she was sensitively quick to feel insolence 
 when it was directed at herself. Corrie, in fancy, 
 could almost see her writhe. 
 
 "You wish to see Mrs. Pinchin?" observed Miss 
 Freedlark, in icy tones. " She has, as yet, not risen." 
 
 Mr. Stanton's practiced drawl resumed itself. 
 " Ah as yet not risen ? Indeed ! As you im- 
 
 290
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S THREAT 
 
 agine, I do wish to see Mrs. Pinchin that is, if 
 it quite meets with your convenience and approval, 
 Miss ah ! Miss Fishhawk." 
 
 There was no reason to believe, from the clearness 
 with which it was spoken, that Mr. Stanton meant 
 the name for anything else than a burlesque. She 
 did look like a fishhawk, and Corrie, stung with a 
 shameful pity for her, sped up the stairs, determined 
 to hear no more. The end of it, nevertheless, reached 
 her as she hurried on. 
 
 " Freedlark, if you please Freedlark is the 
 name ! " corrected the icy voice, more icily. " What 
 is your business with Mrs. Pinchin? I will take 
 whatever message you have for her." 
 
 Then the climax came abruptly. There was no 
 longer any subtle concealment of mockery and inso 
 lence in Mr. Stanton's tone as he raised his voice in 
 answer. 
 
 * 
 
 " Oh, the deuce you will ! " he cried, as if his tem 
 per, strained too far, had snapped under the strain. 
 " When I require your interest in my behalf, I '11 
 apply for it do you understand ? Now flit back to 
 your jingles, madame! " sneered Mr. Stanton; " for 
 I 'm going upstairs to see your mistress without 
 either your aid or your interference ! " 
 
 And with no further ado Mr. Stanton sprang up 
 the stair, gained the floor above, and, with an im 
 perative knock, loudly announced himself to the lady 
 mured within. 
 
 Astounded to the point of dismay, Corrie reached 
 her room. Who was this Mr. Stanton, and what was 
 
 291
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 his place in that house? What were his rights, in 
 deed, that he should thrust himself like this into the 
 midst of Mrs. Pinchin's privacy and repose? Day 
 by day, hour by hour, the coil of mystery had thrown 
 itself into a tangle now far beyond any effort of hers 
 to unravel. But whatever it was, she realized in 
 stantly now, and with a decision which admitted no 
 further temporizing on her part, that this house no 
 longer offered a shelter under which she could remain 
 with dignity no, with decency either with dig 
 nity or decency. 
 
 But how could she escape undetected? It was a 
 thought more pregnant in her mind, at the moment, 
 than the thought of where she could go, once she did 
 make her escape. She dragged out a change of 
 clothes all she would be able to carry with her in 
 her flight tossing them helter-skelter on the bed. 
 What would happen when they saw her trying to 
 get away ? Miss Freedlark was watching below ; she 
 would see Corrie and her bag, and at once sound the 
 alarm. But never mind ! She must take that chance. 
 Her bag was in the storeroom; she must get it at 
 once. Opening her door, Corrie hurried down the 
 hall, her footfalls as guarded as Mrs. Pinchin's had 
 been when she had come prowling through the night. 
 She reached the storeroom; her hand was already 
 turning the knob, when up through the well of the 
 stairway there came the muffled rumble of a voice 
 raised high in exasperation. 
 
 It was Mrs. Pinchin's voice, and it thrilled with 
 reckless anger.
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S THREAT 
 
 " sheer idiocy ! I said so you made me ask 
 him!" 
 
 That was all. The words, fragmentary, disjointed 
 in their sense, broke off, as if the owner of the tower 
 ing voice had been discreetly warned. Sheer idiocy! 
 Yes, it must have been that, if Mrs. Pinchin's angry 
 accusation held any weight. But what was sheer 
 idiocy, and why was it that, because someone had 
 been asked? Who asked who and what was it they 
 had asked.? "Oh " exclaimed Corrie, petulantly, 
 and shoved open the storeroom door. 
 
 She was still rummaging after the bag when she 
 heard Mrs. Pinchin's door open, and the sound of Mr. 
 Stanton's drawling voice. " Do you think I 'd be 
 here, if it was ? Ta ta ! You 're making a mountain 
 out of a molehill, that 's all." 
 
 With these ambiguous words Mr. Stanton went on 
 down the stairs, and the stiff thwacking of Mrs. 
 Pinchin's cane resounded. 
 
 Corrie listened. The heavy, lurching footfall 
 thudded around the floor below, passed distantly, and 
 then returned. Mrs. Pinchin's door slammed, as she 
 closed it; Mrs. Pinchin had immured herself again. 
 Plunging into the gloom of the storeroom, Corrie, 
 reassured, groped around for her bag. She had for 
 gotten where last she had seen it, and the search pro 
 longed itself. Perhaps it had been put on top of the 
 trunks. She climbed on a chair and looked ; the bag 
 was not there. Scrambling to the floor again, Corrie 
 probed deeper into the gloom. There she found 
 it, lying wedged in between a bureau and the wall. 
 
 293
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 All her strength was required to drag it out, 
 and panting with the exertion, she lifted it up and 
 went back to the hall. 
 
 There stood Mrs. Pinchin, both hands on the cross 
 bar of her stick, and leaning forward to watch her. 
 
 Her face had settled itself into the fixed solemnity 
 of an owl's, an aspect still closer because of her 
 arched, Jew-like beak, the drooping mouth beneath it 
 with the lips thinly compressed, the flat flabbiness 
 of her cheeks, and her eyes' rounded glare. Corrie 
 watched her helplessly, and Mrs. Pinchin was the 
 first to speak. 
 
 " What are you doing? " she asked in a controlled 
 voice. 
 
 "I I 'm I was looking for my bag." 
 
 " So I see," remarked Mrs. Pinchin, with no ex 
 pressed interest in the reason that had led Corrie to 
 look for it. " You are also intending to go out 
 to skip out, I should say the way you did yesterday 
 and the day before. I presume you have that in 
 mind," added Mrs. Pinchin, with subdued mockery in 
 her voice. She kept on staring at the girl, her hands 
 still clenching the handle of her cane. " Well, we '11 
 discuss that later. But in the meantime," she said, 
 in a voice that signified it would brook no contradic 
 tion, " you '11 come downstairs, and do the work I 
 have for you. When it 's finished, there will be time 
 enough to argue your own affairs." Mrs. Pinchin 
 raised her stick and pointed to the stairs. " Drop 
 that bag and go down those stairs," she ordered, each 
 word uttered with a slow and ugly, separate distinct- 
 
 294
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S THREAT 
 
 ness that betokened the nature of her mood. " Do 
 you hear? " 
 
 Corrie bent her head and went. 
 
 " One moment ! " called Mrs. Pinchin, as if in after 
 thought ; " where are your hat and coat? " 
 
 The girl raised a trembling hand and pointed to 
 her room. 
 
 " That 's all. Now go on." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin's heavy tread dragged along the 
 upper hall; Corrie heard her close the opened door, 
 and the key grated harshly in the wards as she locked 
 it. Then, after a final rattling of the knob, as Mrs. 
 Pinchin made sure the door was securely fastened, 
 the thump of the cane renewed itself. Mrs. Pinchin 
 reappeared, a grim smile on her face. 
 
 But once she had closed the door of her room, her 
 manner underwent a change. " Well now, my 
 child ! " she croaked with a sudden j oviality and 
 cheerfulness, as disconcerting as the mood of ugly 
 warning ; " since we 've got a lot to do, we might as 
 well begin what d' you say? " Chuckling unnatu 
 rally, she bobbed over to the closet, dragged the door 
 open, and propelled herself inside. Corrie wondered 
 dully what was in the wind. " Here you are, now ! " 
 cackled Mrs. Pinchin, reappearing with an armful of 
 silks and satins, a piled-up freight of gowns, flounced 
 and furbelowed, lace-trimmed and plain. " See all 
 the work we have ! " she cried, and j ocularly clucked 
 her tongue, leering at Corrie while she spoke with a 
 forced indulgence and good nature. " I guess it '11 
 keep us going for a while, anyway. Did you ever 
 
 295
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 see such a mess as my things are in? I declare 
 they 're only fit to throw away." 
 
 But as if fearful she had n't provided enough work 
 for the day, Mrs. Pinchin tossed the dresses on the 
 bed, and plunging back into the closet, emerged with 
 a second assortment. " Here we are now anyway, 
 I guess it '11 be enough to begin on." 
 
 Corrie wonderingly submitted. Nor had she 
 strength left for anything else than surrender. 
 Chuckling and grinning, and wheezing gaily, Mrs. 
 Pinchin led her to a chair by the window, and began 
 dragging one dress after another off the bed, and 
 piling them on Corrie's lap. 
 
 "What! you haven't your sewing bag? Never 
 mind ; you can use mine. Now this old crepe here." 
 Mrs. Pinchin snatched it up, and squaring off a step, 
 draped it in display over her massive limbs. " Look 
 at it ! " she commented ; " a regular scarecrow all 
 trimmed with dull lace, too ! The idea of a fool dress 
 maker making a fright like that for a woman without 
 a gray hair in her head ! " Mrs. Pinchin turned up 
 her nose whimsically, and again clucked her tongue. 
 " Pull it all to pieces. Rip it right apart. That lace 
 can go. We '11 have a rosette here and another 
 here and one there and so on. Those last ones 
 you made were rather good. Three on each side of 
 the revers will do. Out of pink ribbon. No, make 
 'em out of baby blue." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin threw down the dress, and snatched 
 up another. " Now this plum-color brocade. Look 
 at here ! you see what I want done with it ? People 
 
 296
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S THREAT 
 
 must be tired seeing it on me." She paused long 
 enough to help herself to a stuffed prune from a box 
 on her dressing-table, and with her mouth full, went 
 on mumbling her directions. " These berthas are kind 
 of out of style, ain't they ? Anyway, they are, if they 
 ain't trimmed with ruffles. Rip it all off every bit 
 of it. I '11 show you what I mean." 
 
 Standing up before the pier glass, Mrs. Pinchin 
 stripped off her dressing-sack. Her bust with its 
 massive arms was revealed, clothed in French em 
 broidery, and the top of a black silk petticoat blos 
 soming with large plum-colored flowers. Utterly un 
 conscious of the grotesque, she hobbled over to the 
 closet, and drew forth a wide picture hat surmounted 
 by flowing plumes. " Now just catch the whole effect, 
 child," she directed, settling the hat on her head, 
 and picking up the waist of the brocade evening 
 gown. " It ought to be like this." To make her 
 words clear, she tucked the collar under her 
 chin, and smoothed down the discredited bertha. 
 " Rip this all off, and put a few ruffles here, and 
 then " 
 
 A rap on the door sounded. 
 
 " these sleeves, too. See who 's that rapping. 
 The sleeves might be let out a little. Yes, I guess 
 so, and then " 
 
 Maggie stood outside in the hall. She beckoned 
 mysteriously to Corrie, signaling with her head for 
 the girl to follow her. As Corrie made no effort to 
 follow, Maggie leaned forward, her hand held up to 
 the side of her mouth, and her face spread in another 
 
 297
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 of her wide and meaning grins. " He 's at the 
 'phoone. Yer young man '11 be waantin' ye ! " 
 
 " cut Princess fashion," mumbled Mrs. Pinchin, 
 backing to and fro before the glass ; " with an inser 
 tion of panne velvet, and " 
 
 Corrie slipped through the door and down the 
 stairs. 
 
 " gathered full," said the voice, and stopped 
 short. 
 
 As Corrie reached the pantry door, Mrs. Pinchin, 
 leaning over the balusters, was crying excitedly: 
 " Miss Freedlark ! Miss Freedlark ! " 
 
 The girl snatched up the receiver and put it to her 
 ear. " Listen listen to me quickly. I have time to 
 say only a few words. I can't get to you to-day. I 
 don't know when I can. Oh, Phil Phil! do what 
 you can to find out ! " A step came hurrying along 
 through the dining room, and Corrie heard it. " I 
 can't help myself any more! I can't get away from 
 this house." 
 
 His voice rang back to her through the wire, the 
 diaphragm of the receiver humming with its force. 
 She cried back at him. " I can't, don't ask me 
 Oh, someone 's coming ! " 
 
 " Tell me why you can't. You must ! " he de 
 manded. He was still insisting, when a face peeped 
 through the swinging door not Mrs. Pinchin's, 
 though it made little difference now. " Oh, you 're 
 telephoning, are you? " murmured Miss Freedlark, 
 making no effort to retire. 
 
 Through the wire Corrie heard him still insisting 
 298
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S THREAT 
 
 for a reason. His voice, too, was filled with an undis 
 guised concern. Miss Freedlark still looked on, 
 plainly of no mind to move until Corrie hung up the 
 receiver. 
 
 " Why can't you get out, Corrie ? What have they 
 done to you? " Corrie shook from head to foot be 
 fore answering him, as she gazed straight into Miss 
 Freedlark's face. 
 
 "Because I'm watched! Watched! WATCHED!" 
 she cried back : " I 'm watched and can't get out ! " 
 
 Dropping the telephone, Corrie swung around 
 on the eavesdropper, her face white and her hands 
 clenched to her side. 
 
 "What do you want? Was that it? Now go 
 and tell Mrs. Pinchin if you like ! " 
 
 But there was no need for the tale-bearing; a 
 furious thumping on the stairs warned of Mrs. 
 Pinchin's approach. She came through the dining 
 room, thrusting Miss Freedlark roughly aside, and 
 gripped Corrie by the wrist. " Come ; I '11 settle 
 with you now ! " she muttered. Her grip tightened 
 on the girl's arm, and Corrie, dazed and unresisting, 
 went with her. Together they gained the room above ; 
 Mrs. Pinchin pushed her inside and followed. " Sit 
 down," she said, and Corrie fell upon a chair. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin's face had turned white again. She 
 was breathing stertorously, her huge frame shaken 
 by it, and one hand clutched tightly at the breast of 
 her dressing-sack, which she had again put on. But 
 presently speech came to her, choking and difficult. 
 
 " You 're going to defy me, are you? You 're still 
 299
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 determined to keep on ? " Mrs. Pinchin dragged her 
 brows close together, and leaned closer to the girl. 
 " Yes, I see you are. But I know what you 're up to 
 I know and you won't be warned? Is that it, 
 hey? Well, listen !" she cried, growling out the words. 
 " I won't tell you what you 're trying to find out 
 no ; for I 've tried to shield you from that for years. 
 My God ! but I 've been patient with you ! I won't 
 tell you even now, though I know who you are yes, 
 I know all about you, girl. I won't try to hide that 
 from you any longer. But I '11 tell you what I will 
 do. Say the word tell me you want me to, and 
 I '11 send for him! You know who I mean if 
 you 're willing, I '11 send for that young whipper- 
 snapper. I '11 tell him what I know about you who 
 you are and whether you have a name or not ! I '11 
 tell your young Mister Philip Geikie all that he wants 
 to know and more! " shrilled Mrs. Pinchin, stamp 
 ing the floor with her cane. " Then if he has the face 
 to tell it to you, let him aye, let him, do you hear ? " 
 she croaked ; " though to my belief, I don't think 
 you 'd ever see him again ! " 
 
 " Oh ! " gasped Corrie, in a frozen voice. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin lifted herself by her stick. " Come, 
 is it a go ? " she demanded thickly ; " shall I send 
 for him?" 
 
 300
 
 In which Carrie tries to decide whether ignorance is bliss 
 where it is folly to be wise. Dressmaking as a balm for 
 unhappiness. The plum-colored brocade. The lady 
 at the door. How Corrie was kidnapped from Mrs. 
 Pinchin's. Why nothing made any difference to Phil. 
 The kiss of good-bye. Randolph Tollabee's daughter 
 is found. 
 
 huddled down in her seat, and held fast 
 to the chair's wide arms. Mrs. Pinchin's jaws 
 were clenched together ; there was no moment's weak 
 ening pity in her determined eyes. " Hurry up ! " 
 she ordered, stamping the floor again with her cane ; 
 " I 'm waiting for you to decide ! " 
 
 The devilish ingenuity of the situation forced itself 
 clearly on Corrie's mind. The chance had been offered 
 her to learn the truth at last, but what a chance ! 
 what a choice ! Who but Mrs. Pinchin could have de 
 vised it ? to leave to him the decision whether she 
 should be told the secret that might wreck all between 
 them ! Mrs. Pinchin's mouth curled into a faint grin 
 of derision, as if she guessed the torment the choice 
 had brewed. 
 
 " You 've got to make up your mind now and do 
 it quick. Hurry up, there ! " 
 
 " Oh oh, Mrs. Pinchm! " 
 
 The girl pressed both hands to her face, crying 
 301
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 her appeal, yet knowing, before she uttered it, how 
 hopeless it was. 
 
 " All right, then ! " answered Mrs. Pinchin, step 
 ping back, as if to go ; "I '11 send for him. I '11 tell 
 him what you and he have dragged me into telling. 
 Then you two can do what you please between you. 
 Mind now; don't you come crying back to me, 
 though ! " she warned, shaking her stick at Corrie. 
 " I suppose you think he '11 stand by you. All right ! 
 You can think what you choose. Maybe he '11 be will 
 ing to give you his own name. Yes ! " cried Mrs. Pin- 
 chin, laughing scornfully. " Maybe he will, and then 
 
 well, maybe his mother will be willing to let him. 
 But suit yourself ; I 've had my say. So now I 'm 
 going to stop all this ! " 
 
 But before Mrs. Pinchin could reach the door Cor 
 rie was there before her. She threw herself against 
 it, and shaking from head to foot, turned to make 
 a final appeal. 
 
 " No ! no, no you must not ! I won't let you 
 do it. Give me time to think just a little time. 
 Oh ! oh, Mrs. Pinchin ! Can't you see what it means 
 to me? " 
 
 Leaning against the door, she threw out her hands 
 in appeal, hunting though with no degree of hope 
 
 for some sign of compassion in the unfeeling, 
 mocking eyes. 
 
 " Oh! so that 's the way you feel about it, is it? " 
 inquired Mrs. Pinchin, seeing clearly that it was in 
 deed. " You 'd like to know it yourself, but you 
 don't want him to be told? Don't fool yourself, my 
 
 302
 
 KIDNAPPED FROM MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 girl! Young men don't moon around these days 
 like kitchen heroes, marrying the first nobody they 
 come across. You '11 not keep your secret from him, 
 and hope to get a husband into the bargain. Agr ! " 
 she grunted, with a gust of scourging contempt ; 
 " to think of you two gawking fools putting me 
 to a bother like this ! It 's abominable ! Yes ! 
 you two trying to drive me into a corner, and 
 making my life miserable. Oh ! good Lord ! " 
 grunted Mrs. Pinchin, and threw up her hands in 
 disgust. 
 
 Corrie waited until she had finished. " Give me a 
 little time to think you will, won't you ? You won't 
 be so heartless and cruel as to tell him now? Let me 
 see him once again, Mrs. Pinchin, and then you may 
 do what you wish. It won't make any difference after 
 that. Say you will do that promise me, won't you, 
 Mrs. Pinchin ? Promise that, and I '11 do anything 
 you tell me ! " 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin walked leisurely to the table beside 
 her bed and helped herself to a caramel. There was 
 a pause while she slowly peeled off the waxed paper 
 covering, and put the candy in her mouth and licked 
 her finger tips. " Um-mh ! " she mumbled, reflectively 
 chewing while she spoke ; " you 're not so cocksure 
 now, as you were, are you not quite so certain 
 about yourself, eh ? Say ; look at here : what was 
 it you and that young cub had all figured out? Tell 
 me ; I 'd like to be in on the j oke." Mrs. Pinchin 
 licked her finger tips again, and grinned at Corrie 
 almost good naturedly. 
 
 303
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 But Corrie only shuddered a little, and made no 
 effort to reply. 
 
 " Hunh ! Well, you need n't bother to answer if 
 you don't feel like it. A nice mess you 'd have made 
 of it, too, if I 'd let you go on. But I was n't going 
 to let you well, I guess not. I 've just been wait 
 ing for a good, solid chance like this to put a stop 
 to it. And I think I have, have n't I? " she asked with 
 a quick side look at the cringing girl. " Well, any 
 way, I was n't so simple that I 'd let you go on willy 
 nilly without saying something. No, not after all 
 the years I 've spent in trying to hide it from you 
 I mean, trying to save you from it," Mrs. Pinchin 
 added, correcting herself. " Why, look at here," she 
 demanded hotly ; " do you know where you 'd be if 
 I was n't kind to you, and ready to put myself to 
 a lot of bother for your sake? Do you know where, 
 you ungrateful, deceitful child ? You 'd be down in 
 the kitchen washing dishes with the servants. That 's 
 where you 'd be, do you hear? " 
 
 Corrie looked up at her sadly. " Possibly ; you 
 seem to know, Mrs. Pinchin. But I 'm not going to 
 ask your kindness much longer. The other night I 
 told you I 'd stay here until I learned who I am. My 
 mind has changed since then. I 'm going away as 
 soon as I can. You won't be bothered with me any 
 more." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin threw back her head, and look 
 ing at Corrie through half-closed eyes, smiled 
 mockingly. 
 
 " Huh ! huh ! So you still think he '11 take you. 
 304
 
 KIDNAPPED FROM MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 Make up your mind once and for all that he won't. 
 No, I '11 see to that myself." 
 
 " Yes, I think you would, Mrs. Pinchin," answered 
 Corrie, slowly, after a look at the contemptuous, 
 sneering face. " But I 've given up all thought of 
 that now. I shall never see him after I leave here 
 oh! But I 'm going to leave this house, anyway." 
 
 " You 're going to leave? Well, we '11 see about 
 that, too. There '11 be plenty of time plenty of 
 time. And now that we understand each other, you 
 come back to your chair and sit down. I want this 
 sewing finished and no more words about it, 
 either." She stamped her way across the room again, 
 and picked up the plum-colored brocade. " Here, 
 begin on this," she ordered gruffly ; " I '11 need to 
 wear it Sunday night." 
 
 All thought of rebellion had died in Corrie's breast. 
 She came listlessly at Mrs. Pinchin's bidding, and 
 took the dress in her hand. 
 
 " Sit down, now," commanded Mrs. Pinchin, and 
 Corrie sat down. " You understand about the collar 
 panne velvet, and the coffee-o-lay ruching. The 
 velvet 's in the work-basket. Now, don't you dawdle 
 over it, either, because I Ve got to have it to wear." 
 
 With this admonition Mrs. Pinchin helped herself 
 to another bon-bon, glared at Corrie, as if about to 
 say something more, and, changing her mind, thumped 
 out of the room with her face set in a sour, mocking 
 leer. 
 
 Corrie picked up a pair of scissors from the work- 
 basket. She dragged Mrs. Pinchin's plum brocade 
 20 305
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 across her knees, and began to work, only half con 
 scious of what she was doing. The scissors, held 
 clumsily in clumsy, shaking fingers, worked blindly 
 on, and reaching the collar, cut a long gash in Mrs. 
 Pinchin's brocade. Perhaps it was just as well the 
 exacting taskmaster was not there to behold this 
 havoc. Corrie stared at the slit dumbly, and then 
 went on. Work is a sovereign balm for trouble; yet 
 there was no balm in that work of hers. She worked 
 dully, and without consciousness of what her fingers 
 did, her mind in despair. Mrs. Pinchin's plum-col 
 ored brocade was little improved by that half-hour's 
 effort. 
 
 " Miss Cor-r-rie! are ye in there? " 
 Maggie's head obtruded itself cautiously inside the 
 door ; her voice was lowered to a whisper. " Where 's 
 she? " asked Maggie, a warning finger on her lip, 
 clearly with Mrs. Pinchin in mind. " Quick ! 
 there '11 be a lady at the door askin' for ye ! " 
 
 A lady at the door! Her mind, in its submerged 
 dullness, could call to memory no acquaintance likely 
 to ask for her at Mrs. Pinchin's. Who was it ? Mag 
 gie, apparently of no wish to encounter her formi 
 dable mistress, had withdrawn her head as abruptly as 
 she had intruded it. Corrie arose from her chair 
 listlessly. Then there dawned on her who that caller 
 must be ! It was Mrs. Geikie ! What had happened 
 to bring her to Mrs. Pinchin's? Nothing unless 
 it were vital enough to overcome her established dis 
 trust and aversion of the woman she had never seen. 
 Corrie flew down the stairs! 
 
 306
 
 KIDNAPPED FROM MRS. PINCfflN'S 
 
 But it was not Mrs. Geikie. The front door stood 
 open, and there was Virgie Deane ! 
 
 The instant she saw Corrie, she urged her, with a 
 wild beckoning, to hurry faster. Corrie hurried. 
 Through the open door she could see the Deane 
 brougham at the curb, its footman standing beside 
 it, and trying, without a great degree of success, to 
 compose his wondering features into their usual air 
 of solemnity. Nor could one dispute his right to 
 amazement, since his mistress, wildly urging haste, 
 was dancing from one foot to the other in excitement. 
 
 " Hurry ! hurry ! " called Miss Deane, in a stage 
 whisper. Without wasting any time in salutations, 
 she grasped Corrie by the arm. " You 've got to 
 come with me ; Phil 's nearly frantic. I did this for 
 him, but I 'm nearly scared out of my senses. Come 
 along hurry ! hurry ! She '11 catch us if you 
 don't." 
 
 Corrie gaped at her in astonishment. Why had 
 they sent for her? She had forgotten her cry over 
 the telephone that she was watched. 
 
 Miss Deane, in her excitement, ran to the steps 
 and then ran back. 
 
 "Aren't you coming? They're all waiting for 
 you, I tell you ! Phil said to tell you he 'd found out 
 he 'd found out something I don't know what 
 it is. You 've got to come ! Oh, what if Mrs. Pin- 
 chin caught me ! " cried the girl, and began hopping 
 from one foot to the other again. 
 
 " But I can't. I can't get out ! " gasped Corrie, in 
 fected with excitement too. " They 've gone and 
 
 307
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 why why, they 've locked up my hat and coat. I 
 can't get my things ! " 
 
 Miss Deane overlooked this astonishing admission, 
 as if it were an everyday occurrence to have one's 
 things locked up. 
 
 " Never mind them. Come as you are ! Come 
 along ! " She seized Corrie by the hand, and tried 
 to drag her down the steps. " Oh ! she '11 catch 
 us, I 'm sure ! " 
 
 Corrie suffered herself to be led down to the 
 brougham, bareheaded and without a coat. " Back 
 to Mrs. Geikie's, Scanlon ! " breathlessly cried Miss 
 Deane to the footman, and pushed Corrie headlong 
 into the carriage. " Hurry, Scanlon ! " she ordered, 
 and snatched the door out of the man's hand. 
 " Mercy ! has he gone to sleep ? " 
 
 But the footman, with an amazed grin, was really 
 hurrying. " Oh ! look there ! I told you they 'd 
 follow us ! " 
 
 Miss Deane, quite pale and overcome, leaned back 
 among the cushions. Corrie looked, and, at the head 
 of the steps, stood Miss Freedlark, her mouth opened, 
 and her eyes fixed stupidly on the brougham. 
 
 There was a clatter of iron shoes on the pavement ; 
 the carriage rolled away from the curb. Gathering 
 himself together, the horse caught his gait, and went 
 hacking along the asphalt. 
 
 " Miss Robinson ! wait ! wait ! " 
 
 Miss Deane folded her hands together, and looked 
 at Corrie helplessly. " Did n't I tell you ? " she cried 
 under her breath. 
 
 308
 
 KIDNAPPED FROM MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 " Oh, wait wait ! You there ! Oh, coachman ! 
 coachman ! " 
 
 The horse skipped in his stride, and settled back, 
 as he felt the drag on his bit. Miss Deane sat up 
 right, looked at Corrie, and then thrust her head out 
 of the window. 
 
 " Drive on ! Drive on, Higgs ! " she called ; and 
 Higgs drove on, as ordered. Then, had one looked 
 down Mrs. Pinchin's street at that particular hour 
 in the morning, one would have been treated to the 
 spectacle of a tall, angular female panting madly 
 after a brougham, and screaming to it to stop, when 
 the brougham displayed not even the slightest indica 
 tion of stopping. But half a block from Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's, Miss Freedlark gave up the hopeless pursuit, 
 and then aware, for the first time, of the many heads 
 stuck out of neighboring windows, of the many pedes 
 trians turning around to stare at her, of the many 
 nursemaids, market-boys, icemen and other wayfarers, 
 all grinning at the figure she made, she turned and 
 hurried back to Mrs. Pinchin's. 
 
 " Well ! " exclaimed Miss Deane, regaining her 
 breath ; " I '11 know myself if I ever do a thing like 
 this for Phil again ! Mother would n't let me out of 
 her sight for a year if she heard of it. Mercy ! did 
 you see that woman gallop when she came after us? 
 She was screaming, as if we 'd run off with the family 
 plate!" 
 
 Miss Deane burst into a little gale of merriment at 
 the memory. " But what a lark ! Just think of it ! 
 Why, it reads precisely like the books that Tillie, my
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 maid, is always ruining her eyes over. ' Lord Valde- 
 mont seized the unresisting form of the heiress in 
 his arms, and sprang lightly into the stirrup,' ' ; 
 cried the girl, with another peal of laughter, and then 
 stole a glance at Corrie. 
 
 " Please don't. It 's aU right, I 'm sure. It 's all 
 going to come out splendidly in the end." 
 
 Corrie shook her head, and tried with a little better 
 success to smile. " It is n't that, Miss Deane. I 
 wonder what I shall say to Mrs. Pinchin when I go 
 back to her, after this after running away as I 
 did. Or, rather, I 'm wondering what she '11 say to 
 me." 
 
 Miss Deane looked at her for a moment soberly. 
 " Is n't she some sort of a relative of yours? " 
 
 Corrie nodded dispiritedly. " That 's what we 're 
 trying to find out." She looked down at her hands, 
 nervously twining and untwining her fingers. " Some 
 thing has happened I 've found out something that 
 makes me think so. I 'm afraid she is," faltered 
 Corrie in a troubled voice. 
 
 The other girl, who never in her life had known 
 a moment's worry, much less a trouble like this, gazed 
 at her sympathetically. " Why do you care, any 
 way? " cried Miss Deane, with all the exuberant phi 
 losophy characteristic of one that has never known a 
 care. " I would n't let her bother me, whoever she is. 
 Phil does n't care, and," added Miss Deane, as if 
 the fact itself were convincing , " well, if he does n't, 
 I don't see why you should." 
 
 A little touch of pain stabbed Corrie's heart. She 
 310
 
 KIDNAPPED FROM MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 wondered, as she listened to the gay, buoyant girl 
 beside her, what the same girl would think were she 
 to understand all the conditions above all, the cir 
 cumstance that Corrie knew nothing about herself. 
 But Miss Deane, unaware of the belittling thoughts 
 that flocked through Corrie's mind, was rattling 
 blithely on. 
 
 " You should have seen Phil's face when I got there. 
 Mother had sent me with a book she 'd promised Mrs. 
 Geikie, and when I drove up, Phil had just hurled him 
 self down the steps. He had his hat jammed down 
 on his head, and I think he fully intended to descend 
 on Mrs. Pinchin's, horse, foot, and artillery. Yes! 
 as if he fully meant to sack and pillage it and let 
 no soul escape alive." She twinkled with merriment 
 again at the memory. " Phil, all in a breath, told 
 me what had happened about their watching you, 
 I mean ; and he declared no, that is n't it ; he 
 declaimed that 's the very word! He declaimed 
 right like this : ' I 'm going to see her if I have 
 to tear down Mrs. Pinchin's door ! ' " To make her 
 mimicry more impressive, Miss Deane struck an atti 
 tude, one hand in the air, the other thrust into the 
 breast of her smart little j acket. " I told him to 
 keep still, and not be such a ninny. Phil is such a 
 silly old goose when he gets excited. Now when I 
 suggested I 'd go after you myself you know, it J s 
 all my own idea why, Phil nearly lost his reason. 
 He told me if I only would, he 'd love me forever. 
 Hmph ! " scoffed Miss Deane, disdainfully ; " he can 
 Jceep his love until I ask for it. But, anyway, that 's 
 
 311
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 how I came to abduct you, and if mother ever finds 
 out well!" 
 
 In this strain she kept on until the journey's end, 
 losing no chance to rouse Corrie from her fit of the 
 doleful dumps. They rolled down through the Park 
 along the drives arched by the tall trees j ust bursting 
 into green, reached Fifty-ninth Street, and rumbled 
 across the car tracks to the smooth asphalt of Fifth 
 Avenue. It was too early for the usual rout of car 
 riages, delivery wagons, and trucks that make of 
 the avenue the most democratic boulevard in the 
 world; they bowled southward unimpeded; crossed 
 the barrier of Forty-second Street, sped down Mur 
 ray Hill, and ch'cked away along the level, and, at 
 the Twenty-third Street crossing, were held up only 
 long enough to let a rush of early morning shoppers 
 skip from curb to curb. Then they went on again, 
 down through the defile of tall office buildings to the 
 sleepy quiet of the lower avenue, where, at Ninth 
 Street, they turned west along the trail of Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's Monday morning pilgrimage to the mean 
 streets that fringe Greenwich Village. Here was the 
 j ourney's end ; and as Corrie looked up and saw Mr. 
 Biggamore's house in sight, her heart leaped in her 
 throat, beat thickly, and then subsided, a leaden 
 weight in her breast. 
 
 Young Mr. Geikie, apparently, had passed an 
 anxious hour. At the first sound of wheels in the 
 street, he looked out, and then came running down 
 to the sidewalk. Scanlon had sprung down from the 
 box as the brougham turned in at the curb, but his 
 
 312
 
 KIDNAPPED FROM MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 services were not required. Phil, already, had thrown 
 open the carriage door. 
 
 " Why were you so long? I thought something 
 had happened ! " he exclaimed. Then he saw that 
 Corrie was without hat or coat. " Something has 
 happened, or you would n't have taken so long ! " 
 
 " Well, I like that ! " retorted Miss Deane. " I 've 
 been gone hardly an hour. You ought to be glad to 
 see us alive, instead of complaining about the time. 
 No I'm not coming in now! I won't, just to 
 spite you. Besides," added Miss Deane, staring rue 
 fully at the carriage clock, " mother said she 'd meet 
 me at Aunt Olivia's at quarter of ten. I hope she 
 will it 's only eleven now. Good-bye ! Tell Scan- 
 Ion where to drive, Phil. Good-bye, and good 
 luck!'' 
 
 The two walked up the steps together, Corrie silent 
 and downcast, Phil gravely watching her. In the 
 hall he closed the door behind him, halted irreso 
 lutely, and then led her into the darkened drawing- 
 room. 
 
 " Before we go up to mother's room," he said, 
 standing before her, " tell me what has happened." 
 
 Corrie told him. She withheld nothing; no detail 
 of the night and morning's happening kept from him 
 the watch that had been set on her, Mrs. Pinchin's 
 departure with the bandbox, her return and the mid 
 night alarm of Mrs. Pinchin coming like a thief to 
 prowl in the dark of the storeroom. All this she 
 recounted, while he listened, eager to hear every de 
 tail. The girl told him of Mrs. Pinchin's whispered 
 
 313
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 sobbing, of her terrible passion of grief or trepida 
 tion, or whatever else it was, and there he nodded. 
 
 " Yes ! I don't wonder at it. If I were she, I 'd be 
 pretty badly frightened myself that is if what I 
 suspect is true. You remember the advertisement? 
 Well, I think somebody .else besides you and me is 
 on Mrs. Pinchin's trail ! " 
 
 Corrie raised her eyes dully. " Why ? " 
 
 " Because I 've had an answer to the letter I wrote. 
 It was a man who sent it; I can tell that from the 
 handwriting, though it was plainly disguised. Who 
 ever the man is, he 's up to something serious. I 
 can't say what, but it 's something more than an 
 ordinary business matter. He wrote me savagely to 
 keep my hands out of the affair. It was a plain warn 
 ing that if I did n't, I would stir up a mess that would 
 make me sorry for interfering. That 's all there 
 was; now tell me what else happened." 
 
 Corrie went on with her tale. There was nothing 
 left out not even the shaming detail of the threat 
 Mrs. Pinchin had used as a tool to shock her into sub 
 mission. She repeated to him that morning's en 
 counter over the sewing, and how she had pleaded, 
 ready to do anything if Mrs. Pinchin would only 
 promise not to go to him with her impressive 
 secret. 
 
 " Phil, Mrs. Pinchin knows who I am. She has 
 admitted it at last, and it 's Phil, can't you see? 
 it 's something dreadful. I won't try to hide it from 
 you I mean, I won't try to keep you from knowing 
 that it is dreadful. But, Phil oh, Phil, Phil ! I 
 
 314
 
 KIDNAPPED FROM MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 don't want you to know what it is. I can't bear to 
 think of you hearing it all. Can't you see why? " 
 
 He smiled, and shook his head reassuringly. " It 
 does n't make any difference don't worry over it, 
 Corrie. I don't even want to know. Besides, I 'm 
 sure who you are, anyway." 
 
 She waited patiently, little hope in her downcast 
 eyes. 
 
 " No, Phil ; you don't know. It 's all a mistake. 
 You and your mother have been deluded into hoping 
 it was true, until you have believed it. But it is n't, 
 and, Phil, you understand, don't you, why I can't 
 see you again. Don't you really see how it is? 
 Everyone knows it is n't possible, or right, Phil. 
 Even Mrs. Pinchin says so." 
 
 He interrupted her quietly. " Corrie, you must n't 
 talk like that. It 's absurd. Do you or I care what 
 Mrs. Pinchin says?" 
 
 " No, Phil and I would not have cared unless 
 your mother had made me understand the same thing, 
 too." 
 
 He stared at her bewilderedly, as if wondering 
 what she meant. Corrie enlightened him. 
 
 " Yesterday, Phil, your mother thought and I 
 thought so, too that I was someone perhaps 
 someone with a name and a family. But from what 
 Mrs. Pinchin has said Phil, she never would have 
 dared unless she knew f why, I have been made to 
 learn now, that I 'm just plain Corrie just Corrie 
 and nothing else. Don't you understand why I can't 
 see you any more ? " 
 
 315
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 He stirred uneasily. " Wait ! I don't know what 
 mother has said to you ; she won't tell me. Nor will 
 Uncle Phil, though I 've a pretty clear notion what 
 it is. I suppose it was what I 've been trying to keep 
 from you until I was sure." 
 
 "About the Tollabees?" said Corrie, hopelessly; 
 " yes, that was it. But it is all a mistake, Phil," she 
 added, returning to the same, dreary phrase. 
 
 " Mistake or not Corrie, listen to me ! " He 
 came close to her. One hand held her by the shoulder, 
 and she stood without trying to free herself. " Look 
 up at me ! " he commanded determinedly. " Now 
 hear what I have to say: you are going up to see 
 mother ; she 's waiting to say something to you. I 
 don't know what it is, but they 've admitted she 
 and Uncle Phil that they have proof who you are. 
 As I 've said, they won't talk to me about it, but from 
 their admissions, I 'm almost certain you 're Dorothy 
 Tollabee. Something turned up last night that makes 
 me sure. Uncle Phil came in late, and he and mother 
 sat whispering together for hours. Afterward, Uncle 
 Phil went up to his room, and rummaged around a 
 while. I could hear him pulling out the drawers of 
 his desk, and poking among the boxes of papers he 
 has in his closet, and then he came down again. He 
 had a letter in his hand, and he gave it to mother 
 without saying anything. She read it through, and 
 then looked up at him and nodded. I could hear her 
 say to him : " Yes, that 's who she is. I don't 
 think there 's a doubt left." Phil paused, and his 
 hand tightened on Corrie's arm. 
 
 316
 
 KIDNAPPED FROM MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 " Look up at me now," he said, and held her so 
 that he could see her face. " Corrie whoever you 
 are ! whatever they've found out ! Corrie, dear, 
 it does n't make any difference to me. I won't let you 
 go, no matter what happens." 
 
 She shook her head dolefully. " But you '11 have 
 to, Phil," she answered, trying to smile at him in her 
 woe. " What does it matter ? You '11 forget about 
 it in a little while, won't you? We haven't known 
 each other long think how quick it has all been. 
 You must see how it is, Phil this is the last time 
 
 now 
 
 " I mean it. What happens will make no differ 
 ence," he repeated, shaking his head gently, and smil 
 ing down at her ; " don't you see why I mean it? " he 
 whispered. 
 
 He was very close, his eyes fastened on hers, and as 
 full with feeling as they had been during the moment 
 in the Park. The grave look in their depths faded 
 slowly, warming with another light, and in answer to 
 its softness, the girl felt her heart flutter in her 
 breast. Slowly his hand dropped from her shoulder, 
 and unresisting, she let him draw her to him. It was 
 the last time now! It was the parting! Neither he 
 nor any other man should ever again hold her in his 
 arms. This time she made no struggle against it. 
 For what did it matter? There never again would 
 be a time when she would have more than the memory 
 of it and the pain the memory would bring. But 
 
 now He pressed back her head, and already she 
 
 felt his cheek brush hers. She clung to him, weak, 
 
 317
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 desperate, fearful at the thought of losing her love. 
 And then came the blinding, withering thought 
 again the sense of her surrender, and what it 
 meant to surrender so. 
 
 " NO don't ! don't ! for my sake! " she cried 
 fiercely ; " let me go ! " 
 
 She struggled, but his clasp grew tighter about her 
 form. 
 
 " Listen ! " he whispered ; " you know what I 've 
 told you that you are mine, no matter what hap 
 pens. Look up at me ! Look up, Corrie ! " 
 
 Then she looked up, as he bade her. Her arms 
 reached out, and she clung to him, reckless of every 
 thing desperately forgetting even the pain it would 
 cost her, when only the memory was left. " Phil ! 
 
 Phil ! boy ! boy ! " she murmured, and her 
 lips touched his, all her love given to him in that 
 one first and last signal of her longing. " Phil 
 
 good-bye! " 
 
 She freed herself, and drew back from him quietly. 
 " Good-bye, Phil ! " Corrie whispered again ; " you 
 see it must be that. Now, take me to your 
 mother." 
 
 He smiled at her again, lightly and confidently. 
 " Not good-bye, because you 're mine now ! " 
 
 If Mrs. Geikie had any suspicion of what had hap 
 pened in the room, below, her face gave no hint of it. 
 She arose from her seat by the window when her son 
 knocked, and came forward, her hand outstretched, 
 and a kindly smile on her lips for Corrie. Perhaps 
 the faintest bewilderment showed in her face when she 
 
 318
 
 KIDNAPPED FROM MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 saw Corrie was without either hat or jacket; Phil 
 laughed as he pinched his mother's cheek. 
 
 " Virgie and I abducted her, mother," he chuckled ; 
 and then explained himself to the wondering Mrs. 
 Geikie. 
 
 " Virgie did that ! " she exclaimed in a shocked voice 
 that showed no inclination to join in her son's merri 
 ment. 
 
 " Do you mean to say, too," she demanded, in 
 amazement, " that Mrs. Pinchin held Miss Robinson 
 a prisoner? I can't imagine such a thing. My 
 dear," she cried, turning to Corrie, " will you tell me 
 what they have been doing to you in that house? " 
 
 Corrie told her briefly. " It was n't really so very 
 dreadful," she said, with a wistful little smile ; " I 
 think I must have alarmed your son by what I told 
 him over the telephone. But I was nervous and ex 
 cited, and I think I exaggerated. Mrs. Pinchin 
 had hired a woman to watch me you see, she 'd 
 begun to suspect what I was doing. In fact, I 
 think she knew fully that I was trying again to 
 see you, though I can't tell you where she found 
 out, unless she saw me coming here, yesterday morn 
 ing. But anyway, she had this woman to watch me 
 a Miss Freedlark ; and though I 'd suspected before 
 why she had been brought into the house, I was n't 
 sure until your son, Mrs. Geikie, telephoned me. 
 Then I found out I was right in my suspicions, and 
 it upset me. But that 's all it was." 
 
 " All ! " exclaimed Mrs. Geikie, indignantly ; " I 
 call it dreadful. But shameful as it is, Virgie never 
 
 319
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 should have gone to that house. If you had told me, 
 I would have found a more proper way of reaching 
 Miss Robinson." 
 
 " Nonsense, mother ! " Phil laughed again ; " be 
 sides, it was the only way we could set Corrie at 
 liberty." 
 
 His mother looked at him, as he spoke the name, 
 but gave no other sign how it affected her. 
 
 " Will you sit here by me, please," she said, draw 
 ing up a chair for Corrie. " Phil, I wish you would 
 call your uncle." 
 
 " Yes, mother ! " Phil departed, and Mrs. Geikie 
 turned hastily to Corrie. 
 
 " My dear, I must say something to you that I 
 felt a delicacy in telling before my son. You 
 remember what I said yesterday about the Tollabees? 
 Both Mr. Biggamore and I thought it necessary to 
 tell you because well, Phil virtually compelled it. 
 You know he is frank and impulsive ; we realized that, 
 and we were fearful he would shock you by blurting 
 out the truth. He does not understand how serious 
 a condition it is. I believe he regards it all as sort 
 of an adventure, but, fortunately my dear," said 
 Mrs. Geikie, still more hurriedly, as she heard Phil 
 and Mr. Biggamore coming along the hall ; " I have 
 no time to say any more. But remember, I have a 
 sincere and natural interest in you now. Mr. Bigga 
 more will tell you why. You will let me be your 
 friend, won't you? No, don't try to say anything 
 yet. You must wait ; he will tell you." 
 
 Naturally the question that had come leaping to 
 320
 
 KIDNAPPED FROM MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 Corrie's lips was the one she had asked so often of 
 herself, of Mrs. Pinchin, Miss Maria, and even of 
 these strangers. But Mrs. Geikie had turned away, 
 and now was staring thoughtfully through the 
 window. 
 
 " Good morning, Miss Robinson." Mr. Bigga- 
 more, visibly ruffled, had edged into the room, his eye 
 fixed on his nephew in a kind of bumptious indig 
 nation. " See here, sir ! " he cried, suddenly boil 
 ing over, and wagging his finger wrathfully ; " did n't 
 I warn you not to interfere? " 
 
 Phil smiled at him unaffectedly. " Uncle, if you '11 
 tell me what you are talking about, I '11 have a bet 
 ter chance to answer that question. What 's hap 
 pened? " 
 
 Mr. Biggamore danced up and down before him. 
 "Happened? Happened? Great deal's happened! 
 Stop laughing at me like that; I won't have it. 
 Stop it, I say. Now what do you mean by an 
 swering that advertisement? Speak up! Tell me at 
 once ! " 
 
 Mr. Biggamore's hand reached for his wisp of hair, 
 but at his nephew's start of astonishment he paused, 
 and scowled at him frankly. 
 
 " Yes ! " spluttered Mr. Biggamore. " Who gave 
 you leave to answer my advertisement? " 
 
 Both Phil and Corrie stared in open astonishment. 
 
 " Uncle Phil, was that your advertisement ? Was it 
 really yours ? Well, I never ! " 
 
 " Mr. Biggamore ! " exclaimed Corrie. 
 
 " Yes, I put it in. I did it myself. What 's that 
 21 321
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 to you, sir? How dared you answer my advertise 
 ment without my permission? " 
 
 Phil felt no desire to laugh at the absurdity. He 
 looked at his uncle thoughtfully, and then at Corrie. 
 " It may sound almost like a j oke, sir," he answered 
 quietly ; " but I wanted to find out about Corrie. 
 The advertisement seemed to be a clue. I wished to 
 find the Tollabees as well as you ! " 
 
 " Hey ? " It was Mr. Biggamore's turn on hearing 
 this to look startled, too. He glanced nervously at 
 Corrie, shifted his eyes, and then seemed to remember 
 that she had been informed already of her presumable 
 connection with the name. " Oh, yes ; to be sure ! " 
 He controlled himself and glanced uncomfortably at 
 his sister. " Laura, has Miss Robinson been told 
 about last night, too, I mean? " Mrs. Geikie silently 
 shook her head, and once more Mr. Biggamore bit his 
 lip, and tugged solemnly at his forelock. 
 
 Phil waited a moment, and as neither his uncle or 
 mother seemed inclined to go on, he himself spoke. 
 
 " Mother and you, too, Uncle Phil : don't you 
 think you should stop this uncertainty, and tell what 
 you 've found out? Uncle Phil," he asked, turning to 
 him, " did n't Randolph Tollabee leave a daughter ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Mr. Biggamore, gloomily, " he 
 did!" 
 
 " Very well, then ; that 's what I thought. Now, 
 why hide what you know any longer? Why not come 
 out with it, and tell Corrie all there is to know? I 
 don't think what you have to say will hurt her." 
 
 Mrs. Geikie moved restlessly in her seat beside the 
 322
 
 KIDNAPPED FROM MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 window; Mr. Biggamore pressed his lips together. 
 A look of worry had come into his eyes, and he 
 glanced at Corrie still more uneasily. 
 
 " Come," said Phil, urgently ; " is it about the 
 Tollabee fortune? I suppose you've heard. that all 
 the money 's gone that she 's a pauper. Is that 
 it ? What 's the odds ? Why don't you own up to it ? 
 I don't think she cares a snap of her finger about the 
 money." 
 
 " No not about the money ! " whispered Corrie, 
 her eyes desperately searching Mr. Biggamore's face 
 for some clue to the truth. 
 
 " Is that it, Uncle Phil? " 
 
 Mr. Biggamore wet his lips. " No that is not 
 it," he answered painfully. " No but I have seen 
 Miss Margaret Tollabee. I have seen her, and I have 
 also seen Randolph Tollabee's daughter. It's all 
 been a sad mistake. Miss Robinson is not she, at all." 
 
 323
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 In which Mr. Biggamore nervously mops his brow. His 
 story. Miss Margaret Tollabee and the missing papers. 
 Mrs. Pinchin identified. Corrie finds her mother. 
 Phil's delight and Mrs. Geikie's sorrow. Stanwood 
 Geikie's elopement. Corrie also finds her father. 
 
 MISS ROBINSON," said Mr. Biggamore, gloom 
 ily, his chubby face wrinkled with concern, 
 " I need scarcely say how much it distresses me to 
 have to tell you this. The fact is, my dear young girl, 
 we have been led into a natural, though extremely 
 painful error; and now we must make amends for 
 it if we can. But I 've learned a great deal about 
 this business. Sit down, I beg of you, if you please ; 
 and let me tell you what I know. You may as well 
 hear it all." 
 
 He pulled out his handkerchief as he spoke, mop 
 ping his forehead nervously, and still thoroughly in 
 censed at his nephew, as he showed, by the way he 
 uncompromisingly scowled at him. " Huh ! never 
 heard of such a thing ! " he snorted under his breath. 
 " The idea ! Huh ! answering my advertisement ! " 
 
 But Phil himself was too disturbed to pay any at 
 tention to the little gentleman's bumptious indigna 
 tion. A good deal staggered by his uncle's revela 
 tion, he stood leaning on the mantel-piece, his 
 troubled eyes intently fixed on Corrie. There was no 
 
 324
 
 MR. BIGGAMORE MOPS HIS BROW 
 
 thought in his mind but for her ; yet one would have 
 had difficulty in that trying moment to learn from 
 Corrie's expression just how the revelation had af 
 fected her. 
 
 She sat looking at Mr. Biggamore with a queer, 
 crooked little smile. Naturally enough, the shock had 
 dazed her, though the blow was by no means so stun 
 ning as it would have been, had she overlooked the 
 warning in Mrs. Pinchin's threat. Still she felt it 
 bitterly, no matter how she had been prepared; and 
 there settled on her mind, after the first moment of 
 dismay, a feeling of dull and hopeless resignation. It 
 was all past now the dream and its appealing 
 hopes and she dared not look at Phil. 
 
 Beside the window, Mrs. Geikie still sat with her 
 eyes fixed thoughtfully in the distance. As one saw 
 from the trouble on her face, she, too, blamed herself 
 for Corrie's new grief; and Mr. Biggamore, after a 
 glance at her, began more furiously than ever to mop 
 his forehead. 
 
 " Now, Miss Robinson," said he, darting a final 
 glance of indignation at his nephew ; " I 've got to 
 explain myself. You see, we ourselves have always 
 wondered what had become of the Tollabee child, and 
 when you told about yourself, and about all the curi 
 ous happenings at Mrs. Pinchin's, we naturally 
 enough jumped to the most natural conclusion in the 
 world. Well," remarked Mr. Biggamore, slowly and 
 with impressive regret ; " it appears, as you see, that 
 we made only a painful blunder. No," he added re 
 flectively, " we never should have said a word to you 
 
 325
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 about these Tollabees until we were certain of our 
 facts not a single word not a single thing, my 
 dear young girl. I shall never forgive myself for it! 
 
 " But you see," he continued earnestly, " my 
 sister and I knew you suspected some connection be 
 tween yourself and that old friend of ours, Randolph 
 Tollabee ; so there was n't much choice left to us. 
 We had to set you on your guard you see the 
 force of it now, don't you? " he asked awkwardly. 
 " At all events, we thought it best to let you know we 
 were investigating, and we also wished to warn you 
 against the shock of too great a disappointment. 
 My sister here I think she spoke to you about it, 
 yesterday? " Mr. Biggamore looked at Mrs. Geikie, 
 and then energetically bobbed his head. " It was most 
 unfortunate ! Most unfortunate but necessary ! " 
 he added convincingly. 
 
 " Well, I put in the advertisement, and yesterday I 
 got an answer not yours, sir ! The idea ! Impu 
 dence ! " Mr. Biggamore got up, thrust his handker 
 chief into his coat-tails, and plumped down into his 
 chair again. " As I say, I got an answer, and it was 
 from Miss Tollabee herself. She wrote, saying that 
 if the writer of the advertisement would identify him 
 self, she would consent to see him. So I sent her a 
 letter by messenger. She lives in West Tenth Street, 
 just this side of Greenwich Avenue ; and an hour later 
 I got her reply, appointing the hour at quarter past 
 eight last night. Well," said Mr. Biggamore, after 
 pursing up his lips, his face turned away from Corrie, 
 " I went up to the house she 's been living there 
 
 326
 
 MR. BIGGAMORE MOPS HIS BROW 
 
 since Randolph Tollabee died, you know and the 
 long and short of it is, that I saw her, and she showed 
 me his daughter." 
 
 Corrie listened absorbed. " Did you see her 
 yourself, Mr. Biggamore? And there can be no 
 mistake ? " 
 
 He answered gravely : " There can be no mistake. 
 I saw her myself. I would not be so sure now, unless 
 I had." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so," assented Corrie, dully. 
 " And, of course, Mrs. Pinchin must have known this 
 when she warned me." She sighed gently, her queer, 
 crooked smile still unaltered. " Mr. Biggamore, 
 there 's one other question : did Miss Tollabee, by 
 any chance, know of me? " 
 
 The little old gentleman, without removing his eyes 
 from her, began awkwardly to rub his chin ; and Mrs. 
 Geikie, in her seat beside the window, stirred a little, 
 as if she, too, weighed the girl's question with a 
 knowledge of its answer, and what the answer would 
 convey. " My dear young lady," faltered Mr. Bigga 
 more, as if afraid to commit himself in a direct reply, 
 " I can't answer that flatly. You see why, to tell 
 the truth, I don't know whether Miss Tollabee knows 
 or not. The fact is," he went on carefully, " we 
 did n't get down to the point of talking about it. 
 I 'd chosen a pretty trying time for her, I found out, 
 to probe into this business. You '11 understand me, 
 when I tell you Tollabee's daughter is in a serious 
 condition. Miss Robinson, she 's not expected to live 
 but a few days. Mighty embarrassing to me, too. 
 
 327
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 I wondered what Miss Tollabee would think of it. 
 Couldn't be helped, though," muttered Mr. Bigga- 
 more. 
 
 " Then it 's quite hopeless, is n't it ? " asked Cor- 
 rie, in tired tones ; " I mean trying to find out who 
 I am?" 
 
 Mr. Biggamore got up and looked at his sister, 
 and then at Phil. Then he jerked his head at the 
 door in a patent invitation for Phil to clear out. 
 Phil stared at him, but showed no sign of going ; and 
 once more Mr. Biggamore pursed up his lips. 
 " Phil," he said slowly and with an impressive mean 
 ing, " I have something to say to Miss Robinson. 
 Will you be good enough to leave us? " 
 
 Then Phil looked at Corrie, and still looking at 
 her, answered. " No, uncle," he said slowly ; " I 
 don't wish you to think me disrespectful, sir; but 
 unless Corrie would dislike it, I 'd prefer to stay. 
 You see, Uncle Phil, there is a good reason I should 
 hear, too, what you have to tell. I think so ; that is, 
 if Corrie does n't mind." 
 
 His mother, at the window, did not move. Her 
 eyes were still fastened on the distance, and a little 
 quiver of pain twitched at the corner of her mouth. 
 Doubtless, in that moment, she knew that the am 
 bitious house of dreams she had built for him had 
 fallen in a ruin; for she heard now that he chose 
 to build for himself. " Yes, let him stay, Philip," 
 she said quietly ; " I think he should hear it, too. 
 It is best, perhaps." 
 
 " Corrie, dear, shall I stay? " 
 328
 
 MR. BIGGAMORE MOPS HIS BROW 
 
 " Yes, if you wish. It does n't make any difference 
 now." 
 
 Mr. Biggamore heard the " Corrie, dear," and after 
 a confused and startled look at first one and then the 
 other of the two, he jerked his eyes away, and stared 
 at the carpet. " Oh ! " he murmured, now for the first 
 time enlightened ; for, if the truth be told, Mrs. 
 Geikie had not dared to confess even to him her dis 
 quieting suspicions of what had been going on be 
 tween her son and this young girl, who so suddenly 
 had brought her dreams to an end. But whatever 
 the pain of it, the pain every mother feels when first 
 she learns other ties may cross even her own strong 
 bond whatever her pain, she was at least just 
 enough to realize the choice must be left to him. Phil 
 must hear, and Phil must decide for himself. 
 
 " What have you to tell me, Mr. Biggamore ? " 
 asked Corrie, quietly ; " will you tell me now ? " 
 
 He raised his eyes from the floor. " Miss Robinson, 
 I had no opportunity to ask Miss Tollabee flatly 
 whether she knows who you are. In point of truth, 
 it was n't necessary. What I did do, was to ask 
 whether she knew Mrs. Pinchin, and the answer in 
 itself seems sufficient. She said she knew nothing of 
 her. Could n't say who she was. And to the best of 
 her recollection, had never even heard the name be 
 fore. So that settles it, does n't it? " 
 
 As Mr. Biggamore, uttering this in emphatic tones, 
 brought it to a finish, Mrs. Geikie turned and slowly 
 shook her head. 
 
 " No no, Philip ! " she said painfully ; " that 
 329
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 won't do. Tell everything, and let her form her own 
 conclusions." 
 
 So Mr. Biggamore thoroughly disliking the task, 
 told everything, as his sister had directed, and Corrie 
 listened, learning it all, at last. 
 
 " Well, last night," said Mr. Biggamore, mopping 
 his brows again, " I went up to West Tenth Street 
 and found the house. It was a plain, brick dwelling, 
 rather modest, I thought, for people with the Tolla- 
 bees' money. But there 's no accounting for tastes, 
 however, and then later on, I learned they had 
 a pretty good reason for living in that dingy house in 
 a dingy street. The fact is, all the Tollabee fortune 
 is gone. Hmph ! " Mr. Biggamore cleared his throat 
 nervously, embarrassed again, since Phil's dead father 
 had been accused of stealing this Tollabee money. 
 " Well, I rang the bell," said Mr. Biggamore, " and 
 as I stood in the vestibule, I could see someone dimly 
 through the glass, moving at the further end of the 
 hall. They took a precious long time about letting 
 me in, too ; and I had to ring again. Then the door 
 was opened, and in the hall I saw an elderly woman 
 slight, a little stoop-shouldered, and, as far as I 
 could make out, quietly, but well dressed black silk, 
 you know, and a piece of lace over her shoulders. 
 She was n't anyone I knew, of course, because I 'd 
 never seen anyone of the family but Tollabee himself. 
 Still, I guessed who she was ; and ' Is this Miss Tolla 
 bee? ' I asked her. 
 
 " She gave me a stiff little nod, and said it was. 
 Pretty silent sort of a woman, I should call her, too, 
 
 330
 
 MR. BIGGAMORE MOPS HIS BROW 
 
 and not any too glad to be bothered by me. But, 
 anyway, she showed me into her parlor, and after I'd 
 found a chair, she sat opposite with her hands folded, 
 waiting for me to open up and, gad ! I did n't 
 feel any too comfortable, either, when I tried to get 
 going. She would n't give me any help, but sat 
 watching me curiously, peering at me, you know, 
 nearsightedly, as if she were trying to make out 
 what I was after. 
 
 " ' Madam,' said I, after I 'd taken a look at her ; 
 ' now you '11 pardon me, but hm-m-mh ! is this 
 Miss Tollabee or Mrs. ? ' Then I stopped, you 
 know, because I disliked bringing in that er 
 ahem ! I mean that fellow's name well, Stanwood 
 Geikie, if I 've got to say it. But she would n't give 
 me a bit of help ; so I had to plump it out. ' Are you 
 Mrs. Stanwood Geikie? ' I had to ask her finally, 
 and then she blinked at me a while, and slowly bent 
 her head. ' I prefer to be called Miss Tollabee,' 
 she said dully ; ' you doubtless know the reason 
 why.' 
 
 " Yes, I know well enough, though I did n't refer 
 to it ; only bowed, you know. ' Well, madam,' said I 
 politely ; ' of course you '11 want to know why I put 
 in that advertisement.' Hmph! She just nodded at 
 me dully, just about as cold and dumb as an oyster. 
 ' Yes, ma'am,' said I, a little ruffled now, because I 
 could see she was determined not to say anything 
 until she found out what took me there. ' Well, Miss 
 Tollabee,' said I, and started in to lead up gradually 
 to my real business this business about you, Miss 
 
 331
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Robinson. I had to go at it gingerly, you see. 
 ' Miss Tollabee,' I told her, ' I 've come about the 
 old matter of the papers. Yes, ma'am.' 
 
 " ' The papers ? " she exclaimed, sitting up, as 
 tonished: ' What papers do you mean? ' 
 
 " So I told her. ' Don't you remember the papers 
 Mr. Tollabee wrote us about ? your step-brother, 
 ma'am. Just before he died, he sent word he had 
 some papers to hand my brother-in-law. Madam, as 
 you know, we never got those papers ; and now I 've 
 come to ask whether by any chance you ever happened 
 to find them.' 
 
 " No ; it appeared she had n't found them or 
 so she said." Mr. Biggamore pursed his lips again. 
 " I 'm bound to say she was n't very polite about 
 it, though. No ! " he grunted, frowning ; " you 
 should have seen the woman. She would n't look at 
 me, and she acted as if she 'd like to bundle me out of 
 the house, now that she 'd found out, as she thought, 
 what I wanted. * Mr. Biggamore,' she said, half get 
 ting up out of her chair, ' I don't know anything 
 about your papers. You might have written this to 
 me I have sickness in this house, and I did n't know 
 it was about the papers you wished to see me. Is 
 that why you came? Is that all? ' 
 
 " ' No, ma'am, that 's not quite all," said I, begging 
 her to sit down again ; ' I 'd like to ask something 
 else. It 's pretty important, ma'am ! ' I lowered my 
 voice then, because I thought there might be someone 
 in the next room ; and naturally, it would n't do to 
 bawl out to them what I had to say. No, indeed! 
 
 332
 
 MR. BIGGAMORE MOPS HIS BROW 
 
 ' Miss Tollabee,' said I, dropping my voice, * maybe 
 your sister knows where those papers are. And will 
 you tell me where I can find her? ' 
 
 " Hmph ! She did n't seem to feel any desire to 
 hide anything. Anyway, if there 'd been someone in 
 the next room, her tone was high and sharp enough 
 to be heard. In fact, she seemed irritated enough 
 to raise her voice. ' Mr. Biggamore,' said she, loudly, 
 and pretty nervous she was, too, I could see, by the 
 way she hung on to the chair arms, ' why have you 
 come here to rake up an old trouble ? What have you 
 got to do with it ? ' Hmph ! It was as if she 'd 
 really guessed I was only beating around the bush 
 well, as I was sure enough and her voice, too, was 
 like a file. ' Madam, it 's the papers,' said I, sticking 
 to my first story; ' I 'd just like to be sure, ma'am, 
 that your sister has n't found them.' Then she an 
 swered me, and that 's where I found I was on the 
 right trail. 
 
 " You see, I knew nothing at all about her 
 sister. I did n't know whether she was there in the 
 house with her, or where she was. It was just a leap 
 in the dark. Says she : ' Mr. Biggamore ' angry 
 and resentful, too, as she had every right to be at 
 my interrogation ' Mr. Biggamore, I don't know 
 where my sister is. I have n't seen her for years.' 
 Hmph ! It was as I 'd begun to suspect. * Not for 
 nearly seventeen years, ' she went on to say, moisten 
 ing her lips and upset at having to admit it ; 'I 
 don't know what 's become of her and you have no 
 right to meddle. You have no right to meddle ! ' she 
 
 333
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 cried, raising her voice at me. ' You have no right 
 to drag up my trouble like this.' 
 
 " I had n't ; that was a fact ! But ' One mo 
 ment, madam, if you please,' I said politely ; ' I 
 dislike to worry you, but I 've really got to find your 
 sister. Now, you don't know where she is but I think 
 I do ; only I 'd like to make sure.' Well, Miss Tolla- 
 bee got up out of her chair and then sat right down 
 again. 'Where she is? You have found her?' she 
 cried, and I could see that no matter how the two 
 had fallen out, she 'd like to know where the other 
 was, well enough. 
 
 " ' Madam,' said I, once she 'd caught her breath, 
 ' have you ever heard of a Mrs. Pinchin ? Do you 
 happen to know the name? ' 
 
 " I thought she knew at first. ' Mrs. Pinchin ! 
 No, I never heard the name. I 'm quite positive it 
 can't be. And even if it is, she can't possibly have 
 your papers. My step-brother and she hadn't 
 spoken to each other for months before he died.' 
 
 " That was news to me though it all became clear 
 enough, later, when I heard why the sisters separated. 
 ' Madam,' I asked her, ' is your sister a large, dark- 
 faced woman who walks with a limp? Tell me, if you 
 please.' 
 
 " She sat down again and began to think. ' A 
 limp a dark woman with a limp ? ' she repeated, 
 and I began to see that the ordeal was getting too 
 much for her. ' I don't know,' she said, ' how am I 
 to remember when I have n't seen her for years ? I 
 don't know what she looks like now.' Then she 
 
 334
 
 MR. BIGGAMORE MOPS HIS BROW 
 
 struggled up in her chair and threw out her hands. 
 ' Oh, Mr. Biggamore, is this Mrs. Pinchin do you 
 think she 's the one? Let me go to her for your pa 
 pers I '11 do it. I think I can get them. Oh, let 
 me go and get her back to me. I want to get her 
 back I do I do. I want to get her back and 
 keep her, just as we were when we were happy to 
 gether just as we were when we were two young 
 girls oh, Mr. Biggamore ! won't you let me get 
 your papers for you ? I 've prayed God to bring my 
 sister back to me, as she was, when we were two girls 
 together.' " 
 
 Corrie looked up swiftly. " Tell me, please," she 
 said hurriedly; "what did Miss Tollabee look like? 
 Will you describe her for me ? " 
 
 Mr. Biggamore thought for a moment. " She was 
 a medium-sized woman, a little bent over, and very 
 pale. I suppose that was because she was excited, 
 though." Corrie nodded, and Mr. Biggamore went 
 on. " She was quite near-sighted, as I 've said, and 
 then " 
 
 " And spectacles ? " inquired Corrie, quickly. 
 
 Mr. Biggamore shook his head. " No, but I 
 thought she 'd forgotten her glasses. Why ? " 
 
 Corrie disregarded the question. " Was she very 
 plainly dressed dowdily, in fact? And did she have 
 dull, light brown hair? " 
 
 Mr. Biggamore, puzzled, shook his head again. 
 " No, on the contrary she was nicely dressed. The 
 lace on her shoulders was quite fine, I should say, 
 
 335
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 quite old and expensive. As to her hair, why 
 hm-m-mh let me see. Oh, to be sure, why her 
 hair was very gray almost white, in fact. Then 
 she wore a magnificent diamond brooch at her throat, 
 and her rings well, they were beautiful. I got a 
 good look at them when she reached out her hands at 
 me, begging to get her sister back. But why do you 
 ask? " 
 
 Corrie sat back in her chair with a little gesture 
 of defeat. " It is n't anything, Mr. Biggamore. I 
 wondered whether I 'd ever seen her." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Biggamore, going on with his 
 story, " I quieted her down. She and her sister had 
 separated over a pretty serious business ; I don't 
 wonder she was so upset about it. But time heals 
 many wounds, and I could see she wished to hear 
 about the other whom she had n't seen for so many 
 years. Of course, I felt no doubt now of who Mrs. 
 Pinchin was, and Miss Tollabee seemed to think so 
 too or, rather, she made no further effort to dis 
 pute it. Well, the point is, Miss Robinson, that I 
 got down at last to where I began to see daylight 
 in this Pinchin business. 
 
 " It was in this way : * Mr. Biggamore,' said she, 
 after I 'd told her about the woman in Seventy-fifth 
 Street, ' how did you find out all this ? Who told 
 you ? ' She was pretty solemn and worried about 
 it now, hating to talk of her trouble, you see, yet 
 wanting to hear all about her sister. ' How did you 
 find out? ' she asked, and I told her, lowering my 
 
 336
 
 MR. BIGGAMORE MOPS HIS BROW 
 
 voice because I 'd heard someone in the next room. 
 There was only a folding door between, and we 
 would have easily been' overheard. But Miss Tolla- 
 bee told me to go on; the person was only a nurse 
 and would n't understand what we were talking about. 
 ' Well, ma'am, in rather a strange way,' said I, and 
 I told her all about the curious happenings at Mrs. 
 Pinchin's ; how* she 'd moved out of the house behind 
 us when we came along, and about the album you 'd 
 found in the garret, and the book with the Tollabee 
 name in it; only I didn't tell her about you, you 
 understand, Miss Robinson. I was holding back that 
 business about the Tollabee child, so that I 'd have 
 some sort of a climax Hm-m-mh ! it was a cli 
 max, but not just the kind I'd anticipated. 
 
 " Miss Tollabee was mighty interested. * You 
 have n't told me yet,' said she, earnestly, ' who gave 
 you this information.' So then I plumped out 
 with it. 
 
 " * My dear madam,' said I, leaning back and grin 
 ning at her like a fool, ' the person who told me this, 
 and the one who has the album, is Randolph Tolla- 
 bee's daughter.' 
 
 Mr. Biggamore screwed his face into a rueful scowl. 
 " Huh ! It was ridiculous ! absurd ! a piece of 
 imbecile tomfoolery ! " he grunted, with another wry 
 face ; " I ought to have been ashamed of making 
 such a clown of myself! 
 
 " * Randolph Tollabee's daughter ! ' repeated Miss 
 Tollabee, looking at me, as if I 'd lost my wits ; 
 * Randolph Tollabee's daughter, did you say ? ' 
 22 337
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " ' Yes, ma'am ; she 's living with Mrs. Pinchin ! ' 
 I answered, nodding and smiling, and ready to 
 enj oy her amazement. ' That 's where the girl 's 
 been found ! ' But instead of what I expected Miss 
 Tollabee gripped her hands together, and sat back 
 staring. 
 
 " * Mr. Biggamore,' said she, in a curious voice, 
 * Randolph Tollabee's daughter is here in this house 
 with me! She 's been here for years - and I don't 
 know what you mean! Why, the child has been in 
 my charge ever since my step-brother died ! ' And 
 so she had ! So she had ! " exclaimed Mr. Bigga- 
 more ; " that 's all there is to tell." And thrusting 
 his hands into his pockets Mr. Biggamore sat back 
 with a gesture of finality. It was his signal the tale 
 was told, so far as he was concerned. 
 
 Corrie sank her chin into her hand, and thought; 
 or rather, she made an effort to think. But though 
 she had followed the tale with a close, absorbed at 
 tention, she had failed, so far, to grasp its full sig 
 nificance. The others silently detached, waited, all 
 three with their eyes on her. " So you saw her 
 then ? " murmured Corrie, lifelessly ; " you saw Ran 
 dolph Tollabee's daughter ? " 
 
 Mr. Biggamore slowly nodded, his eyes still fas 
 tened on her in pity. " Yes, I saw her. She has 
 been an invalid all her life a cripple to tell the 
 truth. Poor thing, poor unfortunate child; she may 
 be dead even now, for when I saw her, she was not 
 expected to live. Poor Miss Tollabee, too ! She stood 
 
 338
 
 MR. BIGGAMORE MOPS HIS BROW 
 
 with the tears streaming down her face when she took 
 me up to see Randolph Tollabee's daughter. I felt 
 sorry for the woman. Ton my soul, I did." 
 
 Another silence. Corrie sat again with her chin 
 resting in her hand. Once or twice Mr. Biggamore 
 moved uncomfortably, as if he wished to say some 
 thing. But Corrie was the first to speak. 
 
 *' Is there anything else anything you have n't 
 told me yet? If there is, I'd like to hear it." 
 
 Mr. Biggamore turned appealingly to his sister; 
 as Mrs. Geikie caught his eye she made him an al 
 most imperceptible signal ; and Mr. Biggamore shook 
 his head pleadingly. 
 
 Corrie saw it. " There is something else, Mr. Big 
 gamore. Won't you please, please tell me ? " 
 
 The little old gentleman mopped his forehead ner 
 vously. " Do you know who I am? " demanded Cor 
 rie, in a whisper shrill and distinct. Her eyes widened 
 as she guessed the answer in Mr, Biggamore's appeal 
 ing look at his sister. 
 
 " My dear child," he said, ponderously ; " after 
 the Tollabee sister went away to make a home for her 
 self, she had a child a daughter. Miss Margaret 
 told me so just before I left her. I leave you to form 
 your own conclusions." 
 
 A spot of color burned brightly for an instant on 
 the girl's cheeks, and then faded as the pallor crept 
 up in her face. " A daughter ! " she murmured, he* 
 eyes widening at him. " A daughter ! Mrs. Pinchin 
 a daughter? " 
 
 339
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Phil sprang toward her. " Corrie ! " he cried, and 
 at his exclamation Mrs. Geikie looked up and slowly 
 and sorrowfully shook her head. " But, mother ! " 
 appealed Phil, impetuously ; " this makes it all right, 
 of course. We know who she is now ; she 's Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's daughter and that settles it, does n't it now? 
 But to think how that woman 's treated her ! Oh, it 's 
 abominable ! " He stopped, bit his lip hastily, and 
 looked at his mother with a sudden stare of inquiry. 
 Whatever the glance conveyed, she paid no attention 
 to it. 
 
 " Philip," said Mrs. Geikie to Mr. Biggamore, in 
 a faltering voice, " you '11 have to tell it all now ; she '11 
 find it out, anyway. You must tell her ! " 
 
 Corrie, with a shudder of distress, raised a hand to 
 her cheek, and breathed deeply. " Mrs. Pinchin my 
 mother? She ! my mother ! Mrs. Pinchin! 
 Oh! but then how could she have treated me so? 
 How could she ! " 
 
 " My dear, dear child," said Mr. Biggamore, pity 
 ingly ; " when the Tollabee sisters parted when 
 Mrs. Pinchin went away, why well, my dear young 
 girl, the fact is, she ran off with her sister's husband 
 with Stanwood Geikie. I 'm afraid the man is 
 your father." 
 
 340
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Showing the undesirable result of discovering one's unknown 
 parents. Mrs. Geikie's sympathy and her appeal to 
 Corrie. How the course of true love may not only never 
 run smoothly, but may even be brought to a dead stop. 
 Phil's determination. The return to Mrs. Pinchin's, 
 and what Corrie said to her. Mrs. Pinchin's dismay 
 at being discovered in a most uncomfortable role. 
 
 SO Corrie had learned; for here, at last, was the 
 solution of the mystery a parting of the veil 
 the key to her perplexities of Corrie Who? and 
 Corrie What? All her dreams were rendered now in 
 an answer that was itself a nightmare more grotesque 
 and embittering than even the hopelessness of being 
 left in doubt. Her mind, focussed on the truth that 
 had at length been made clear to her, grasped the 
 sordid reality with a despair that stripped her of the 
 last shreds of comfort. She knew now yet, in 
 agony, cried out again for the past life when she had 
 not known. Before realization withered all else, ig 
 norance had, at least, allowed her to cherish hope, 
 and now hope, like the phantasy of a dream, had been 
 stripped from her in the awakening. She arose to 
 her feet, her mouth drawn in the struggle of trying 
 to hide the pain of it, and steadying herself by her 
 chair, the girl drew a hand across her brow. It was 
 a gesture of dull, tired surrender; nothing was left 
 to her now but to submit to what was given. 
 
 341
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " I understand, Mr. Biggamore. It 's quite clear 
 to me." The little gilt clock ticking on the mantel, 
 with a preliminary whirr, struck the hour on its chime, 
 and she turned her eyes to it confusedly. " I must 
 be going now. I don't think I could hear any more 
 now. There is n't anything to tell, I suppose ? I 
 must get home back to Mrs. Pinchin's, because 
 that 's really my home, after all. She '11 be expect 
 ing me, and I 've been away a long while now." 
 
 Mrs. Geikie got up from her chair, and spoke to 
 her softly : " But you can't go like this," she said, 
 her face keenly showing her sympathy and remorse. 
 Perhaps poor Corrie should not have been told. Per 
 haps there might have been some other way. Yet a 
 moment's thought showed her the futility of hiding 
 a thing like that. And after all, it were better the 
 two knew now, this boy and girl, than to have the 
 truth raise its ugly shadow later on. " You must n't 
 go like this, my dear. Stay here with us a little while. 
 I wish you to stay, and let me talk to you." 
 
 " No," said Corrie. 
 
 " But, my dear Besides, you have neither hat 
 
 nor coat ; you must wait to let me send you home in 
 a carriage." She looked at Phil, as she said this ; and 
 the young man, understanding, nodded back at his 
 mother. During these few burdened moments, he had 
 been trying vainly to read from Corrie's eyes how 
 deeply the shock of all this had affected her ; but 
 Corrie studiously averted her face. She heard him 
 leave his place by the mantel, and when the door 
 closed behind him, she looked up again.
 
 THE RETURN TO MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 " You can see how it is, Mrs. Geikie. I must go 
 back to Mrs. Pinchin's, and begin all over again. 
 Your friendship and all my small hopes must end 
 here, because it would only hurt me to continue and 
 trouble you, too ; don't you see it would? if it all 
 kept on." The older woman tried to say something, 
 but Corrie smiled wistfully and shook her head. " No ; 
 I can see how it is, clearly. I 've been carried on 
 into dreaming I was like other girls, and now I 've 
 got to learn I 'm not. You see, I Ve never had the 
 childhood they have, and when your son came and I 
 grew to know him, I began to think that maybe I 'd 
 have something to make up for all I 'd missed when 
 I was a little girl. If I'd had a childhood, and a home, 
 and a name all my own, it still would have made me 
 happy to think he cared for me. And to think he 
 cared for me anyway, and then to believe everything 
 was all right, it seemed to me, Mrs. Geikie, as if it 
 really did n't matter about the past. I could afford 
 to let all that go, because this new happiness was go 
 ing to be so great that I 'd forget all the rest I had 
 missed. Then I began to know it could n't be true. 
 I was sure of that even before you and Mr. Biggamore 
 told me, though I still clung desperately to the hope. 
 It seemed too wicked to think I should be allowed to 
 taste such j oy , only to have it all taken away from me. 
 But it 's so it 's so. It 's all been taken away, as 
 you can see; and now I must go away, and not talk 
 about it, or think about it any more. It 's not meant 
 I should get what other girls have, as I 've always 
 realized. Now I must go back to Mrs. Pinchin's." 
 
 343
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Mother," said Phil, quietly ; " Corrie can't go 
 away like this. We can't let her go back to that 
 house. You know what you think yourself." 
 
 Mrs. Geikie looked back at him, her lips pressed 
 together, and again the shadow of pain in her eyes. 
 " Yes, Phil and you still wish it? " 
 
 " Yes, mother," he answered quietly. 
 
 Mrs. Geikie sighed gently, as if with the sigh had 
 been rung the knell of all her ambitious dreams for 
 him. ** Miss Robinson Corrie, if I may call you 
 so, since my son wills it, you must stay here with 
 us now. It will not do for you, after this, to return 
 to Mrs. Pinchin's." 
 
 "Hey what's that?" ejaculated Mr. Bigga- 
 more, quite astounded. 
 
 Corrie raised her eyes. " No, Mrs. Geikie," she 
 said ; " I am very grateful ; but I must, indeed, go 
 back there. I have been away now already too long 
 a time. I must get back as soon as I can." 
 
 Mrs. Geikie drew a deep breath; it was plain the 
 girl had not clearly perceived her meaning. 
 
 " My dear, you do not understand. You are to 
 stay here always to live here until you and my boy 
 have made a home for yourselves. That is what I 
 mean. He has asked it ; but oh, Corrie, Corrie ! " she 
 cried, rising and stretching out her hands to the 
 girl ; " you will try to make him happy you 
 will, won't you? Because it is for his happiness 
 only for that for his love for you, that I have 
 given up so much. Try to make him happy, won't 
 you?" 
 
 844
 
 THE RETURN TO MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 Corrie walked swiftly to her, and took the two 
 outstretched hands. 
 
 " I understand but I cannot ! " she answered 
 quietly; and at this, Phil started with a gesture of 
 protest. But Corrie turned to him with her broken 
 smile. " No, Phil and you, dear lady I can't 
 let you make that sacrifice. I know already that I 
 must not, happy as it would make me. I love your 
 son very dearly, Mrs. Geikie; I think I shall always 
 love him. I love him so, indeed, that I cannot burden 
 him with one like me. It is very dear and great of 
 you to ask me that, knowing, as I do, what you think 
 of it ; but I can't do it." 
 
 "Corrie!" 
 
 She turned to him, again with that queer, tremu 
 lous smile of hers, and shook her head. " No, Phil ; 
 I can't do it." 
 
 Mrs. Geikie leaned forward, and laid her hand 
 on Corrie's shoulder. " My dear," said she, softly, 
 " I think, if it ever happens you become my 
 daughter, I shall be proud of you. Your answer 
 now is not final, I am sure. You will change your 
 mind." 
 
 " No," said Corrie ; " I shall not change it. I 
 love him too much. I cannot ruin his life." 
 
 " I know you do," said his mother, gently ; " but 
 it is not that. I know my son, and that is the reason 
 why you will marry him. He will never give you up, 
 my dear." 
 
 But Corrie was still determined. " No," she said, 
 and so there it stood. Still further, she said it again, 
 
 345
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 when Mrs. Geikie begged her stay a little longer and 
 talk to her. 
 
 The grave, gray-haired, older woman dropped 
 her eyes when Corrie finished; Mr. Biggamore, 
 silently drawing in his upper lip, got up and drifted 
 to the mantel. After elaborately staring at the clock, 
 and then as elaborately consulting his watch, he 
 twitched at his forelock thoughtfully, and wandered 
 to the door. " Hm-m-mh ! " said Mr. Biggamore 
 softly; and the door closed behind him. 
 
 " Good-bye, Mrs. Geikie," said Corrie, restrained 
 now, and only a little pale ; " I am going." 
 
 " You won't wait? I wish you would let me talk 
 to you." 
 
 " No, please. You have been very good to me ; 
 but I can't bear to talk any more." 
 
 Gravely, Mrs. Geikie waited, perplexed at what she 
 should say or do, and all the more remorseful now 
 
 even more pained that Corrie had taken it so 
 gently. 
 
 " But your carriage has n't come. Won't you sit 
 with me until it is here?" 
 
 Corrie smiled listlessly. " I want to be alone," she 
 said slowly ; " I can't talk to anyone now. I can't 
 even listen. I 'd like to stay downstairs until the 
 carriage comes. Won't you let me sit in your draw 
 ing-room till it gets here? I've got to try to think 
 
 don't you see ? " 
 
 Mrs. Geikie said no more. " Good-bye," murmured 
 Corrie, and turned away. 
 
 346
 
 THE RETURN TO MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 He found her there in the darkened drawing-room, 
 sitting with her hands clasped, and looking down into 
 her lap. She was thinking, her mind fixed weakly on 
 the new beginning and how she should face Mrs. Pin- 
 chin greet the woman, who after all was said, was, 
 none the less, her mother. " Why ! I thought you had 
 gone away gone out ! " she murmured perplexedly ; 
 and then: " Is the carriage here? " 
 
 Phil stood before her, silent and thoughtful, his 
 boyish face dark with the concern he felt. " Won't 
 you go please! " she begged, after a pause, and 
 again there was the queer, crooked smile on her lips ; 
 " you know I have said good-bye to you." 
 
 But instead of going, he still waited, quietly ear 
 nest. " There 's only one thing I can tell you, Cor- 
 rie dear," he said slowly. " It does n't make any 
 difference what we 've learned what I heard up 
 stairs, just now. It doesn't make any difference, 
 little girl." 
 
 She dropped her head inertly. " But you 've said 
 that before. Why do you still worry me? " 
 
 Her attitude and tone were as if only she had 
 realized the hopelessness of her trouble, but that he 
 might realize, too, were he only to give it a thought. 
 
 " Listen, Corrie dear : I don't believe you under 
 stand how sincerely I mean that. Can I make it any 
 clearer? Shall I tell you again that I will not let 
 you go and why ? " 
 
 " No ; it will do no good, Phil. Oh, boy ! 
 boy! why do you make it so hard for me? Why 
 won't you go, when I have said good-bye to you? 
 
 347
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Isn't it enough? You must not trouble me so. 
 They 've told you who I am, and you could see what 
 they thought of it. No, it 's as Mrs. Pinchin said 
 the only thing that 's left to me is to go crying back 
 to her to beg her pardon. There 's nothing else to 
 do, is there? " She raised her eyes with a quiet cer 
 tainty in what she said. " But you make it hard 
 so very hard for me, Phil. I did want to get away 
 without seeing you again, and yet you persist. At 
 the last moment, I wanted to say to your mother and 
 uncle not to tell me that I did n't want to hear, 
 because I knew. I realized that what I 'd dreamed 
 about being happy and having a home and a name, 
 Phil, was j ust nothing but a dream. And I did n't 
 want you to hear the ugly awakening. Oh, boy ! boy ! 
 if I 'd only had strength enough to stay away and 
 keep from hearing it and to keep you from hearing 
 it, too. I wanted it that way. I wanted it, because 
 then, when you remembered me, it would be just as 
 you'd known me first just as I was before we 
 learned all this dreadful reality." 
 
 " Stop, Corrie ! " There was a harshness in his 
 remonstrance that echoed almost anger. " Shall I 
 tell you still again that this reality, as you call it, 
 has not changed me ? Must I keep on repeating it 
 or do you really wish me to go away and leave you? 
 Is that it?" 
 
 " Oh, Phil ! Phil ! can't you see I 'm not able to 
 stand much more of this ? " 
 
 " Very well, then," he answered, in a sudden tone 
 of mastery : " you must n't talk about yourself, Cor- 
 
 348
 
 THE RETURN TO MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 rie, in that way. It is n't your name I 'm thinking 
 about, or anything else like that about you ; it 's only 
 you. I want you ! you, Corrie dear and I won't 
 give you up. Oh, dear, dear little girl ! what differ 
 ence does it make to us who you are? You can't go 
 away all alone from me now sweetheart ! poor 
 little girl!" 
 
 She fought for a moment. " No ! no ! Phil ! 
 why do you? " But he would not let her free. Then 
 again came the thought she was losing him, and that 
 this ended everything. " Oh, boy ! why do you 
 make it so hard for me? Can't you see that I must 
 go away from you? Can't you? can't you? Oh, 
 don't you see it? " There she clung to him, her face 
 strained against his shoulder, her frame shaking while 
 he tried to comfort her. " Phil ! boy ! they 're going 
 to make me lose you," she cried ; " and I can't 
 I can't ! " 
 
 " You 're not going to, dear there ! there ! " 
 He held her closer, stroking her hair quietly, till the 
 storm of tears passed and left her calm and restrained 
 again. " Phil ! " She reached out her hands and 
 took his face between them. Holding him a moment, 
 with her eyes fastened on his, she drew down his head 
 toward her. " Phil this is good-bye ! " 
 
 The carriage was at the door. " It is good-bye," 
 she whispered, looking up at him steadfastly : " good 
 bye, Phil, and please try not to look at me like that ; 
 it is the last time, you know. Good-bye ! " 
 
 But he only shook his head, smiling with disbelief. 
 " Good-bye, dear. It 's only for a little while till 
 
 349
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 I see you again, you know. Good-bye, till then, 
 little girl ! " So while her face lay upturned to his, 
 he kissed her again ; and " good-bye ! " she whis 
 pered ; " it is good-bye ! " 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin was at home and waiting. She sat 
 in her bedroom, her eyes fastened before her on va 
 cancy, her outstretched hand clinging to the ivory 
 handle of her cane. Mrs. Pinchin was buried in 
 thought, and to judge by the way she clenched her 
 jaws together and scowled, it could not have been a 
 pleasant reflection that raised itself behind that grim 
 mask of hers. A dull, portentous fire burned in her 
 heavy-lidded eyes; she was breathing deeply while 
 she ruminated; and now and then a thick, grunting 
 murmur rumbled in her chest. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin sat alone, it is almost needless to 
 say. Miss Maria was still absent; and on the heels 
 of Corrie's departure, Miss Freedlark had departed 
 also. After a brief interview with her hostess she 
 had gone down the stairs, bag in hand, on her bony 
 face a look of the most convincing and painful as 
 tonishment. Perhaps it may be best to let Miss 
 Freedlark so make her exit behind the curtain of her 
 blushes, and say no more about it ; her part had been 
 played in the drama ; and, if the truth be told, it had 
 been played very little to Mrs. Pinchin's taste. " Oh, 
 thank you for my nice visit," faltered the departing 
 guest, not knowing in her dazed moment just what 
 else to say, whereupon Mrs. Pinchin stared at her 
 with a grin of wonder. " Oh, thank you so much," 
 
 '350
 
 THE RETURN TO MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 said Miss Freedlark; and then as a parting evidence 
 of her esteem : " it 's nice to think I shall see you 
 Sunday evening." 
 
 " Humph ! oh, suit yourself ! " growled Mrs. 
 Pinchin, ambiguously ; and with a surly grin, sharply 
 closed her door. 
 
 So now she sat denned in her bedchamber, waiting. 
 The hours passed and still she brooded; then came 
 the expected one and she raised her crest. 
 
 As the door opened, her heavy eyes turned to it, 
 and a silence followed. Then afterward : "So you 
 have come back," said Mrs. Pinchin, the words uttered 
 with a slow rumbling like thunder answering to the 
 light darting from her eyes. " You 've come back, 
 have you? " she repeated with a grim heaviness. Then 
 there was a pause. " And why have you come back ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 Corrie closed the door, and leaned against it, with 
 her hand still on the knob. There was no wavering 
 in her eyes, as she fronted the glowering visage 
 turned expectantly toward her ; she was white, yet 
 resolutely calm. " Yes, I have come back," she said 
 unintently ; " I have come to ask you whether you '11 
 let me stay here now? " 
 
 " Hey? " Mrs. Pinchin's brooding darkness 
 launched itself away, and there dawned in her eyes a 
 new and startling eloquence of passion not con 
 tempt, or the slow fever of sullenness, or rage and 
 hate, but an armed, alert force of inquiry and wonder, 
 and with that, a little gleam of alarm. " Hey? " 
 and then as a light seemed to break in on her mind's 
 
 351
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 shadowing uncertainty, her features gradually com 
 posed themselves into a fixed, disparaging leer. 
 " Hoh! ho ho! " she croaked, jeering it under her 
 breath, and grinning with the pleasing certainty that 
 she was right ; " and so you 've heard something, 
 hey? They've told you!" she cried, knowing it; 
 " and your young whipper-snapper 's turned you 
 adrift ? Oh-ho ! " she gibed, and with a mighty strug 
 gle gained her feet. " So you 've learned now ? Have 
 they told you, hey? " And there her high-pitched 
 eagerness dropped a note changed, so that when 
 she spoke again it was with a furtive, calculated slow 
 ness, as if, once more, doubt and wonder had gained 
 the upper hand. " Have you been told ? and what 
 was it? Come! " she rumbled, the hollow stridency of 
 her voice echoing through the closed room. Come! 
 I 'd like to know," said Mrs. Pinchin, and stared at 
 her. 
 
 It seemed to Corrie as if in that pregnant moment 
 all her past life with Mrs. Pinchin raised itself to 
 stream by in a vivid parade, every detail of it crying 
 a new claim to rouse her to undying bitterness. For 
 this was her own mother the woman who had borne 
 her; and the knowledge of it added a new shame to 
 the misery she already felt shame for the mother 
 who could have treated her child like that ! 
 
 " Well are you going to tell me? " jeered Mrs. 
 Pinchin, tilting her head on one shoulder. 
 
 " No ! for why should I ? " answered Corrie, in 
 a tone of weary dullness. " You know what I have 
 been told, of course and why should I speak of it 
 
 352
 
 THE RETURN TO MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 to you? It shames me even to think of it, and to say 
 it. No, I '11 never talk of that with you never ! 
 never! All I ask of you is to let me stay here where 
 I belong. This is where I must stay, I see, if you 
 will let me. Perhaps some day I shall be able to 
 reason it all out or, perhaps some time I may have 
 to ask you to tell me. But now it seems so unbeliev 
 able that I can't bring myself to think of it." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin dragged a chair to her, and with her 
 eyes still on Corrie, groped for it clumsily, and then 
 sat down. " Eh? I 'd like to know, now, what you 're 
 driving at ? " she piped in a queer, cracked tone. 
 
 Corrie weariedly studied the pattern of the carpet, 
 speculating on its tracery and florid coloring, as one 
 in a fever stares at the covering of the sick room 
 walls. " Don't ! You must n't try to keep it up any 
 longer," she retorted brokenly ; " I 've told you I 
 know, and isn't that enough? I understand all 
 everything, of course, but what you 've done to me 
 all these years. I suppose, though, it 's only the way 
 women like you must treat their children when they 're 
 like me. I did n't know it before. But I want you to 
 understand that you '11 never be anything except Mrs. 
 Pmchm to me. I can't ever think of you or ever 
 call you by that other name never! " 
 
 A faint color gathered in Mrs. Pinchin's flabby 
 cheeks and spread in a flood to her brow and neck. 
 She glowed with it, and a deep, sobbing gasp sounded, 
 as she sucked in her breath. Then her eyes shifted to 
 the floor, and went cruising away into the far cor 
 ners, darted aside and came drifting back. Guilt 
 23 353
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 wrote itself in every line of her face; her eyes stole 
 back to Corrie, and, once meeting the girl's clear look, 
 they leaped away again, running along the floor's 
 edge like a rat trapped and trying to find some way 
 out. 
 
 " Oh ! " gasped Mrs. Pinchin, shamefully ; and so 
 she knew. 
 
 There was a garish, ormolu timepiece clucking on 
 Mrs. Pinchin's mantel ; a swaggering, gilt vulgarity, 
 whose pendulum rocked to and fro with a kind of 
 drunken knowingness. Its thick, knocking beat at 
 tracted her attention, and Corrie fixed her gaze on 
 the jeweled face until her sight swam, each brilliant 
 winking at her with a separate jeering orb. Sick 
 ened by it, she wrenched away her eyes, and let them 
 wander vaguely about Mrs. Pinchin's boudoir. Com 
 fort and the ostentation of comfort, too, vulgar 
 and ill-classed as it was comfort showed in every 
 nook, a marked, distinct evidence of the self-indul 
 gent being that reigned there. But with all this 
 overpowering display of it, how much had the greedy 
 genius of it all spared to her? She could not re 
 member even so much as the comfort of a kind word 
 or act much less, the sharing of one of these other 
 material comforts. Greedy, greedy Mrs. Pinchin 
 and to think that she was her mother ! Corrie 
 withdrew her gaze from the room's crowded comforts 
 kept there for Mrs. Pinchin only. She looked at 
 Mrs. Pinchin herself. 
 
 "It's understood now, isn't it? I know and 
 354
 
 THE RETURN TO MRS. PINCHIN'S 
 
 you know, Mrs. Pinchin. So I must begin again 
 and begin where I belong is n't that it ? Well, 
 where are the ruffles and velvet for your plum-colored 
 gown? I have my work and you '11 need this for 
 your party Sunday night." 
 
 With her cheeks still flaming, Mrs. Pinchin pointed 
 speechlessly to the work-basket, gagged once in an 
 effort to say something, and then, her stick clatter 
 ing loosely against the furniture, fled the room as 
 if pursued. 
 
 Corrie had come home, indeed! 
 
 355
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin entertains. A glimpse of West Side society in 
 one of its curious phases. The lady from the middling 
 West and her convoluted r's. Mr. Stanton's whimsical 
 remarks, and Mrs. Pinchin's just resentment. Mrs. 
 Pinchin's volunteer musicians. The rebuke, and Mr. 
 Stanton's dismay. Why Corrie would n't elope. Phil 
 and his singular uncle. 
 
 PROMPTLY at eight o'clock on the Sunday 
 evening following, the drawing-room at Mrs. 
 Pinchin's began again to fill itself with Mrs. Pinchin's 
 guests. They came singly, as a rule, yet in such in 
 creasing numbers that one momentarily became more 
 and more convinced the night's entertainment had 
 been planned with a far greater elaboration than the 
 hostess had ever before attempted. 
 
 Of this, there was a preliminary confirmation in 
 the awning that reached from the curb to the vesti 
 bule; and on climbing the steps, the arrivals were 
 greeted with still further evidence of it in the person 
 of a manservant, who with automatic precision mur 
 mured to each newcomer : " Ladies, first floor 
 front; gentlemen, first floor back." There, on the 
 floor above, other servants were in waiting, a man to 
 remove the men's coats ; a maid to assist the ladies. 
 On descending, and when the guests had presented 
 themselves at the drawing-room door, a third attend 
 ant disclosed himself : a lackey, flunkey, castel- 
 
 356
 
 PHIL AND HIS SINGULAR UNCLE 
 
 Ian, major-domo, butler, or whatever else you choose 
 to call him, who, like his companions, had been hired 
 for the evening from the caterer's. In justice to 
 this personage, however, it should be said that 
 though he had so far fallen beneath himself as to 
 accept day's wages for a duty like this, he still pre 
 served enough of his self-respect not to look pleasant 
 about it. Such as were familiar with the custom 
 gave him their names, when he announced them with 
 whatever degree of scorn he thought necessary to 
 their station, or, more exactly, to their lack of it. 
 Others and these were the less knowing who 
 sought to blunder by unannounced he held up 
 with an imperative hand and an equally imperative 
 scowl. " What nyme ? " and the name being 
 given and then announced, they were suffered to make 
 an uncomfortable entrance. 
 
 " Mister Seenyer Halferendy! " 
 
 Entered Signore Alfuente, the rumpled musician, 
 a slight commotion succeeding at his heels as the 
 next comer tried unannounced to force a way past 
 impervious Albion at the door. 
 
 "What nyme?" 
 
 " Hey? Why ! oh, Freedlark." 
 
 A single glance having established the probable 
 handle to the name, Albion raised his voice : " Miss 
 O'Freedlark ! " 
 
 Entered the lady of the bony face and the highly 
 articulated shoulders, and pushed her way toward 
 the hostess. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin sat in her high, heavily-carved oak 
 357
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 chair before a bank of palms, which, when the enter 
 tainment was over, would be transplanted to their 
 pristine jungle of Columbus Avenue. A stiff and 
 impressive aigret nodded on her crest ; and from the 
 pendulous lobe of each of the lady's ears a large sol 
 itaire diamond hung, glittering with a fire that very 
 nearly, if not almost, equaled the lambent blaze of 
 her eyes. On her massive person, the plum-colored 
 brocade shone forth with a newness of grandeur that, 
 in itself, was worth all the labor and trouble re 
 quired of Mrs. Pinchin's companion, who had en 
 tirely remodeled and rehabilitated the dress with 
 ruffles and a collar of panne velvet. Indeed, as a 
 single evidence, it was enough to distinguish the oc 
 casion as above the ordinary ; and one needed only 
 to look at it and then at the jewels, with which Mrs. 
 Pinchin had tricked herself out, to know she had de 
 termined to make both herself and her evening mem 
 orable. For beside the diamonds in her ears, the 
 thewy fingers of each hand were stiff with rings ; 
 bracelets as thick and formidable as handcuffs 
 clasped her powerful wrists ; and at her throat shone 
 a diamond brooch notable enough in size to have 
 done duty as a stomacher, or, fitted with a hoop, to 
 have graced the brow of a comic opera singer ; 
 perhaps, at the very least, a duchess. 
 
 In view of the trying circumstances that had gone 
 before, any other woman less decisive than Mrs. 
 Pinchin might have postponed her entertaining to 
 a more agreeable moment. Or possibly, if it were 
 really necessary to show so bold a front, a more 
 
 358
 
 PHIL AND HIS SINGULAR UNCLE 
 
 timid person might have essayed it on a less deter 
 mined scale a small dinner, say, or a few friends 
 in for the evening just a little distraction to drive 
 dull care away. Yet even to suggest this now of 
 Mrs. Pinchin seems to advocate an injustice that 
 to-night's brave front should hardly encourage, such 
 was the intrepid figure she made. 
 
 For there was the old, familiar hostess; there the 
 eyes' languid sullenness, peering insolently through 
 the heavy lids ; the same wistful, well-remembered 
 droop of the mouth; and beneath the pouched and 
 leathery, flabby cheeks, the square, determined firm 
 ness of jaw and chin. Mrs. Pinchin, in fact, and so 
 far as the world might read from her face, carried her 
 self as if no happening, however untoward, could 
 occur to impugn her resolute and determined cour 
 age. The old Pinchin might die, but it never would 
 surrender; and the girl who peered at her from a 
 forgotten corner of the room saw her now as she 
 was a grim and undefeated protestant of self, 
 menacing the enemy with a visage frowning with all 
 the hauteur and nobility of a warrior whose back is 
 against the wall. Voila! vive la Pinchin! One 
 scarcely could have failed to admire her, alone there 
 and out in the open fighting quietly, worn and 
 tired, yet still resolute. 
 
 " So good of you to come," muttered the stalwart 
 figure, in a weary, listless voice. Her eyes raised 
 themselves to the face of each newcomer; yet it was 
 only with an effort that she kept them there. Her 
 old dull aplomb of the hostess was hers yet, though 
 
 359
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 even more awkward and repressed ; and her greet 
 ing, such as it was in its cut and dried precision, 
 seemed dragged from her with a struggle. At other 
 times, she had added to her hackneyed expression 
 some trite observation about the weather, or, per 
 haps, a question whether the guest found himself in 
 good health. Now, after the one welcome of the 
 "so good of you to come," her eyes wandered 
 dispiritedly; and the newcomer, left stranded on 
 the shores of civility, either faltered an unanswered 
 commonplace himself, or, confused by her silence, 
 straggled away in bewilderment. 
 
 " Er Mr. Alfuente. So good of you to come." 
 Mrs. Pinchin's dull eyes awoke with a little gleam 
 of remembrance, and instead of releasing the not too 
 tidy musician's hand, she clung to it long enough 
 to get her vague thoughts into order. " Glad I saw 
 you, now," she said slowly ; " if you have n't any 
 thing for to-morrow morning, come up here and see 
 me. I want to talk about music lessons for that 
 that girl. Say twelve o'clock about, if that suits 
 you." The Signore, who would have expressed his, 
 pleasure, had she given him time, felt himself gently 
 propelled onward by the hand that still held his; 
 and Mrs. Pinchin turned to the next newcomer. 
 
 " So good of you " She stopped as her eyes 
 raised themselves. " Hunh ! so you got here, did 
 you? " 
 
 Miss Freedlark, her pale, fawning eyes playing a 
 duet of cheerfulness with her grinning teeth, pranced 
 ecstatically; yet before she had a chance to reply, 
 
 360
 
 PHIL AND HIS SINGULAR UNCLE 
 
 the hostess had turned indifferently to greet the next 
 in turn. 
 
 Corrie detached her shadowy eyes from the scene 
 before her, and looked down at her hands, clasped 
 together in her lap. She sat alone to-night, for the 
 gray, mouse-like figure of Miss Maria still absented 
 itself from Mrs. Pinchin's. When Miss Maria would 
 return was still a question. Corrie had heard only 
 she had gone to the country on a visit, but beyond 
 this, Mrs. Pinchin had not seen fit to enlighten her. 
 Nor had Corrie asked any more, for between her and 
 this woman who had been found to be her mother, 
 there had fallen a barrier of silence. For three days 
 now, she and Corrie had met only at meals, or, very 
 occasionally, in the halls, the stalwart figure clump 
 ing by in uneasy, shifty-eyed haste, her face averted ; 
 the girl shrinking against the wall to give her a clear 
 passage. It was, indeed, a sort of armed truce, in 
 which each of the contending forces dared make no 
 overt move, but stood waiting at arms for a renewal 
 of the hostilities. At the table, the moody figure pre 
 siding over it buried her eyes in her plate ; and when 
 the brooding silence was broken, it was only to ad 
 dress a word to the servant, never to speak to the 
 girl who sat there, mute and downcast at her left. 
 To-night, rising from another of these dogged, 
 grisly feasts of silence, Mrs. Pinchin had turned, 
 and, with her hand resting heavily on the table's 
 head, had spoken. " You '11 be there in the draw 
 ing-room, won't you, when the guests come? " There 
 was no command voiced, or indeed meant, in what she 
 
 361
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 said. It was, instead, a tacit admission of uncer 
 tainty, a confession of weakness as plainly spoken, 
 as if framed in so many words. " Yes, if you require 
 it," the girl answered negligently. " That 's a part 
 of my duty, isn't it?" But Mrs. Pinchin, without 
 replying, had scuttled away like a crab. 
 
 So Corrie was here now, dowdily attired as of yore, 
 with her hair snaked back into a knot like a house 
 maid's done up for the morning. 
 
 Again the room had filled to the walls ; each pic 
 ture held its close and anxious critic; the usual 
 manoeuvering resumed itself to inspect Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's numerous articles of vertu. There, too, one 
 saw the night's selection of castaways and hermits 
 marooned in their chairs, or celled discreetly in the 
 corners. " So good of you to come, now," protested 
 Mrs. Pinchin, greeting the last of the guests ; and 
 across the room, Corrie could hear the thick, tired 
 voice still making its effort. The woman profusely 
 shaking the hostess's hand had lately moved into the 
 neighborhood, she and her husband new colonists 
 from what one may call not the middle West, but 
 the middling West, the homes of whose newly rich 
 add so much to the stately, studied architecture of 
 Riverside Drive. She came to-night fully convinced 
 she was making handsome strides in a social cam 
 paign aimed upon the smart set, and now apologiz 
 ing anxiously for arriving so late, was twisting each 
 and every one of her r's into a doughnut, while the 
 hostess leered at her curiously. They 'd had to wait 
 on the carriage. Her husband would n't leave her 
 
 362
 
 PHIL AND HIS SINGULAR UNCLE 
 
 walk. Then when the hack came, they 'd no sooner 
 got in, when her husband wanted out. He 'd for 
 gotten his keys which they 'd need if they wanted 
 in before the servants got up in the mawrning. Mrs. 
 Pinchin was still leering at her, when Albion at the 
 doorway again raised his lungs: 
 
 " Mr. Stanton ! " 
 
 Corrie's eyes leaped up swiftly from her hands. 
 Mrs. Shadyside, the lady with the convoluted r's, 
 had been gently but firmly edged on into the draw 
 ing-room's crush, and was now gasping disjointedly 
 to her husband, like a fat carp cast up on the beach 
 by the tide. Corrie looked, and, as the lean, hawk 
 like visage of Mr. Stanton disclosed itself, elegantly 
 stroking a whisker with his finger tips, the last tint 
 of color in her face went out and left her pale and 
 wide-eyed. 
 
 The cool eyes quizzically took in the floral dec 
 orations and the room's crowding guests. 
 
 "Well, madam and how goes it?" 
 
 Mr. Stanton dropped leisurely into the chair at 
 Mrs. Pinchin's side, and as leisurely looked around 
 him. There had been no other greeting, nor did Mrs. 
 Pinchin look as if she expected one. Her dull eyes 
 had leaped with a momentary fire as she heard his 
 name announced; and her jaw settled itself into a 
 more pronounced squareness ; and if one had taken 
 the trouble, at that instant, to study Mrs. Pinchin's 
 face intently, one would have detected in it a rather 
 curious expression. Was it distaste that lurked in 
 Mrs. Pinchin's careful eye, or was it even a more 
 
 363
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 substantial feeling? dislike, say; or shall one be 
 downright about it, and call a spade a spade? That 
 rancorous gleam flitted balefully from her eye, glint 
 ing for the instant, like pale lightning in a thunder 
 head; and there was Mrs. Pinchin licking her lips, 
 as if the taste of something was hard to cleanse 
 from her mouth. 
 
 "What say?" 
 
 Mr. Stanton looked at her idly. " Oh, how goes 
 it? That was all, my dear." As Mrs. Pinchin made 
 no immediate reply, but continued to peer at him, 
 still wetting her lips as if fevered, Mr. Stanton looked 
 away again. " Quite an evening for the herd, is n't 
 it ? " he observed genially, his eyes resting with a 
 meaning smile first on the guests, and then on the 
 room's decorations. " And something to eat for 
 them, after they have pranced." He smiled a little 
 more broadly. " The simple pleasures of the peas 
 antry," said Mr. Stanton, and rippled with laughter 
 at the thought. 
 
 Again the leaping fire in the dull eyes ; Mrs. Pin- 
 chin bit her lip. Had it been Miss Maria, instead, 
 Miss Maria would have wept. But Mrs. Pinchin, bit 
 ing her lip, only shook a little, and when she looked 
 back at him, her nostrils had widened ominously. 
 " If you don't like it, then," she remarked, with a 
 slow and threatening rancor, " what brings you 
 here so often? Oh you want to know what I 
 mean ? Well, I tell you I 'm tired of your sneers. 
 Tired of the way you 've come here and stuck up 
 your nose for years. Now, if you don't like it, clear 
 
 364
 
 PHIL AND HIS SINGULAR UNCLE 
 
 out and let me alone. I '11 keep on paying up, but 
 you need n't come here." 
 
 Mr. Stanton looked up with a quick start of sur 
 prise. " Oh, come now, Judie ! " he expostulated. 
 
 " I mean it ! " she answered, her jaw undershot, and 
 her slumbrous eyes now crackling sparks like a static 
 discharge. " I 've stood it as long as I 'm going to." 
 
 He looked into her face sharply, and then threw 
 a swift glance around the room. " What 's wrong 
 with you ? " he demanded under his breath ; " have 
 you told me all that 's happened? Look here! " He 
 stared at her an instant, a searching look, alert 
 and suspicious. " What really went on the other 
 night, Judie? Are you holding anything back 
 from me ? " 
 
 " I 've told you all there is to tell. It 's settled 
 and I 'm not going to talk of it any more. But you 
 mind what I say." She scowled at him full in the 
 face as she said it. " You '11 be civil when you come 
 here or you won't come at all." 
 
 Mr. Stanton leaned back, and again began pluck 
 ing at his silky whiskers. " Phew, Judie ! " he re 
 marked, after a thoughtful pause ; " but you 're a 
 queer piece." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin made no answer. She sat looking 
 straight ahead of her; and for the moment, her 
 guests, and her own required duties as a hostess, 
 seemed more than ever to be forgotten. At length, 
 however, she drew a deep breath, moved uneasily, 
 and looked up. Her eye dully swept the assemblage 
 sitting there, and then awakened, Mrs. Pinchin looked 
 
 365
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 about her nervously, frowning in disquiet. "Humh!" 
 Lurching to her feet, she stared past Mr. Stanton 
 to the corner of the room, and there her eye fell on 
 Corrie. 
 
 The girl sat with her fingers still clasped together, 
 and her gaze fastened on the man by Mrs. Pinchin's 
 side. One would have had difficulty to read what lay 
 behind her tense expression ; but as Mrs. Pinchin 
 lumbered to her feet she detached her eyes from the 
 man and turned them on the woman. Then one 
 might have detected a little shudder starting through 
 her slender frame, a quiver that passed, leaving a 
 deepened pallor on her face. For in that moment 
 the full realization came to Corrie, and she knew, 
 sensing with an utter submission to despair, the mis 
 ery of her plight. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin, unaided except by her stick, heaved 
 her way across' the room. She was breathing harshly 
 when she arrived. " Play us a little something, won't 
 you? " she asked, and there was that same uncer 
 tainty and downright uneasiness in her tone now 
 that had marked her recent speech to the girl. Cor 
 rie arose, and made her way to the piano, heavy and 
 unresponsive; Mrs. Pinchin stood listening to a 
 guest, who tried to engage her in conversation, and 
 who, it seemed, was destined to make but poor work 
 of it; and in his chair beside Mrs. Pinchin's aban 
 doned seat, Mr. Stanton, the elegant, sat and nib 
 bled thoughtfully at his fingers. 
 
 Shall it be told that Corrie played and that 
 Corrie knew what she was playing? Shall it be said 
 
 366
 
 PHIL AND HIS SINGULAR UNCLE 
 
 she forgot all else in the harmony's soothing balm? 
 It is true, to be sure, that she sat at the piano, and 
 that her fingers, trained instinctively to the work, 
 wrenched from the keyboard certain associations and 
 sequences of sound that may have passed among 
 Mrs. Pinchin's uncritical guests as music. But to 
 say that she knew what she played, or that she knew 
 how she played it, were no more true than if one said 
 a somnambulist knows what he is doing when he wan 
 ders in a trance. For though the score before her 
 was the score of Lizst's Rhapsodie Hongroise; and 
 though the notes the piano gave forth were near 
 enough to the air to pass muster, Corrie's eyes were 
 far away from the printed notes and bars, and in 
 Corrie's heart was anything but song the rhyth 
 mic, throbbing pulse of joy and life that breathes 
 through the Abbe's sensuous motif. 
 
 For she looked at the man who sat by Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's chair nibbling at his finger tips ; and the more 
 she pored upon the lean and scornful face, hawklike 
 in its aspect of intellectual greed, the more her heart 
 cried out in rebellion at the jest that life had played 
 on her. Rough on Mrs. Pinchin's random guest, 
 , we '11 say, but, doubtless, Mr. Stanton himself would 
 only have chuckled lightly, had he known. 
 
 The music came to an end in a little burst of po 
 lite applause; and, as through a fog, hazily, Corrie 
 saw Mrs. Pinchin bearing down on the piano. At 
 her heels, the rumpled musician followed, twirling 
 his moustaches, his velvety eyes glowing consciously ; 
 and as Mr. Alfuente sometimes worked his passage 
 
 367
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 to use the expression by obliging with a little 
 music, Corrie arose to make way for him. 
 
 The Signore, after widening his soulful orbs in an 
 other stare meant to be alluring, sat himself at the 
 piano. " Got everything you want ? " grunted Mrs. 
 Pinchin, in the same, tired voice. " Here you, girl 
 " She paused uncomfortably, realizing appar 
 ently that her tone was the old surly, commanding one 
 of the time when she frankly domineered. " I mean 
 will you see Mr. Alfuente has what he wants? " 
 
 She went back to her chair after that, ignoring 
 Mr. Stanton, who, by this time, had so far recovered 
 himself as to be able to look around him coolly ; and 
 leaning on her stick, sat back with a gentle sigh. 
 " Tired? " asked Mr. Stanton, casually; but as Mrs. 
 Pinchin made no answer, he smiled idly, and then with 
 a less confident scowl, went at his finger-nibbling 
 anew. " Oh, suit yourself ! " sneered Mr. Stanton, 
 and said no more. 
 
 Corrie, after mutely pointing out the music in the 
 cabinet beside the piano, as silently departed, leav 
 ing Mr. Alfuente staring after her with an aston 
 ished and rueful frown. However, the guests waited, 
 and more or less consoled by their expectant atten 
 tion, the musician turned, and directed himself to 
 the piano. 
 
 How the girl survived the evening's ordeal, even 
 she could not have told. She sat there in the back 
 ground, as self-effaced as a Miss Maria, and unaware 
 of what went on about her, except as the changing 
 sights and sounds of Mrs. Pinchin's entertainment 
 
 368
 
 PHIL AND HIS SINGULAR UNCLE 
 
 came to her like vague occurrences of a dream. There 
 was never a lack of volunteers, such as they were, in 
 the lady's drawing-room assemblages ; as Mr. Stan- 
 ton so keenly had observed, the herd' pranced and 
 with no small degree of willingness. " Music " said 
 Mrs. Pinchin's cards in the lower corner, and the 
 hostess had never been called to pay for it in cash. 
 To-night there would be what afterward Miss Freed- 
 lark would describe fulsomely as a collation; the 
 herd would prance first, and then it would be fed. 
 Mr. Alfuente obliged with a first number, and then 
 two successive encores ; on the heels of that, there 
 was polite conversation ; and then a lady who had 
 hopes deluding hopes, however of selling Mrs. 
 Pinchin a few dozen tickets to a concert she was giv 
 ing, got up and sang. More conversation, then; 
 and again Mr. Alfuente obliged, following with a 
 double encore, once more. Afterwards, there was a 
 duet by the lady concert-giver and a basso-profundo 
 in a knotted tie stuck into his shirt front; subse 
 quently came the promised supper. 
 
 As Mrs. Pinchin arose to give her signal to her 
 guests to those whom the genial Mr. Stanton had 
 so genially likened to our dumb friends her eye 
 again wandered toward Corrie. There was less un 
 certainty in the signal now, for the girl, as Mrs. 
 Pinchin had shrewdly seen, had forced upon herself 
 an obedience to what she considered her line of duty. 
 "Play!" signaled Mrs. Pinchin's lips, as she jerked 
 her head toward the piano; and again Corrie 
 drifted across the room. Her face, as she passed 
 24 369
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 the finger-nibbler in his chair, was white and expres 
 sionless ; but as she went by the perturbed Mr. Stan- 
 ton, one might have seen her, with an almost imper 
 ceptible movement, draw her skirt aside to keep it 
 from touching his outstretched boot. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin turned away from the man, who was 
 now leisurely rising; but Mr. Stanton, as if deter 
 mined not to be put out by her haughtiness, addressed 
 a smiling observation to his hostess over her haughty 
 shoulder. " May I esquire the Queen of the May ? " 
 inquired Mr. Stanton, lightly, " or shall I straggle 
 in with the peasantry? " 
 
 They were, in that moment, alone, hedged in on 
 one side by the bank of palms ; before them, a little 
 open space left vacant in front of Mrs. Pinchin's 
 throne. At the mocking words, a ruddy color suf 
 fused her neck and spread to her leathery cheeks ; 
 Mrs. Pinchin turned slowly on her heel, yet by the 
 time she had faced her sneering guest, there had been 
 time for her face to pale shockingly. " I told you 
 I 'd not stand that any more," she said quietly, under 
 her breath ; " are you contemptuous of this house 
 because it is the only one in New York that has not 
 shut its door in your face? The time 's come, I warn 
 you, when you sha' n't sneer at me any more," said 
 Mrs. Pinchin ; and looking him again in the face, she 
 stumped away toward the dining room, leaving Mr. 
 Stanton peering after her, scarlet and disconcerted. 
 
 Corrie saw the moment's conflict and awoke suffi 
 ciently to marvel. The guests, streaming away in 
 Mrs. Pinchin's wake, flocked through the double 
 
 370
 
 PHIL AND HIS SINGULAR UNCLE 
 
 doors ; the room was emptied, yet Mr. Stanton re 
 mained, still tugging furiously at his whiskers. Hid 
 den behind the sheets of music on the rack, Corrie 
 watched, her hands, by instinct only, carrying on 
 the task of beating out a march to lead Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's guests to the promised feast; and as she 
 watched she saw a look of covert wonder and dismay, 
 perhaps fear, oust every other expression from Mr. 
 Stanton's usually scornful features. " If " he 
 muttered under his breath ; and then saying no more, 
 silently thoughtful, Mr. Stanton wandered off at the 
 heels of the guests. 
 
 The girl's head sank forward dispiritedly, and the 
 music came to an end. There were no tears in her 
 eyes as she rested her forehead on the arm raised up 
 to the piano's edge; she had not been able yet to 
 find in her arid misery the woman's solace of tears. 
 But why weep when there was nothing to be gained 
 from it? Tears were not a thing to salve a woe like 
 hers. Hour by hour, she might pour out whole tor 
 rents of grief, and the flood might rise up around her 
 till she stood in a briny ocean of tears ; yet when the 
 tears were shed and there were no more left to weep, 
 there would be still that same implacable shame of 
 woe that neither time, nor tears, nor grief ever could 
 assuage. 
 
 "Corrie!" 
 
 She heard the whispered name, still leaning for 
 ward with her face buried in her arm. For the in 
 stant, she believed it only an echo sprung from her 
 disordered thought. 
 
 371
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Corrie ! Corrie, dear! " 
 
 " Oh oh, is it you! " 
 
 She had started up with the gasping exclamation, 
 a moment's color flooding her cheeks and then fading, 
 until in each cheek, only a small, blazing spot re 
 mained. "Phil! Phil!" she whispered; and then 
 forgetting all her resolution, the decision of her poor, 
 frail little will the resolve that they must never 
 see each other again, Corrie forgot utterly what she 
 had so decided must be, and clung desperately to his 
 hands. " Oh, Phil boy, boy ! " she whispered 
 brokenly ; " I can't stand it much longer." 
 
 He was quiet for a moment. " There 's no reason 
 why you should, dear," he answered slowly ; " that 's 
 why I have been waiting here so long." 
 
 " Waiting so long? I don't think I understand." 
 She raised her tired face to look at him dully. 
 
 " Did n't you see me when I came in ? I 've been 
 here more than an hour upstairs, waiting. Cor 
 rie, why would n't you see me this morning and yes 
 terday and the day before? You wouldn't even 
 answer my letters." 
 
 " No I know." She sat back from him, listless 
 and dreary again. " You must n't worry me, Phil. 
 I 've said I could n't stand it much longer ; to see 
 you makes it all the harder. Won't you go away 
 and not trouble me so? To live here and to have 
 always to face what I know is bad enough, but, Phil 
 go away, Phil and please, please don't come 
 back again. I won't be able to stand it if you don't 
 let me forget." 
 
 372
 
 PHIL AND HIS SINGULAR UNCLE 
 
 He waited until she had grown calm again. " I 
 don't want you to forget, dear, if it means forget 
 ting me. And I can't stay away, as you ask." He 
 looked down at her, smiling gently. " Corrie, I can't; 
 and that 's the plain truth of it. Dear, listen to me. 
 Come away from this place. Come away with me, 
 to-night. Will you, dear? Oh, Corrie, I can't leave 
 you here ! " 
 
 She shrank back further, frightened and trembling. 
 He tried to take her hand and she drew it away. 
 
 " Will you go with me and be married? " he asked 
 again ; but Corrie had begun shaking her head wildly 
 as soon as his lips formed the words. 
 
 "No no, Phil!" 
 
 " You must, Corrie ; why won't you ? " and then 
 the inevitable complaint of hot-headed youth and 
 love "Don't you care for me enough?" 
 
 " And face your mother when I 've dragged you 
 down to me? " she questioned, forcing out the words: 
 " No, Phil ; not that, either for your sake or mine. 
 Haven't I said I love you too much for that? 
 For the sake of both of us, I can't do it. Don't ask 
 me to tell you so again ever ever, Phil. Be 
 cause if you Why, what is it ? " 
 
 She broke off, looking up at him wonderingly, per 
 haps a little frightened, for so far from looking at 
 her, he had raised his head to stare across the room 
 to the corner where heavy draperies hung over a 
 door. Through the curtains a face peered idly for 
 a moment, and then a man stepped forward into the 
 room. 
 
 373
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 It was Mr. Stanton, and he did not see the two at 
 the piano, or, if he did, he did not realize. 
 
 "Phil! What is it?" 
 
 Then she saw, and with a shrill breath, sat back 
 and watched. 
 
 A palm at the piano's side hid the boy as he stood 
 upright; the man thoughtfully pacing the room's 
 other end could not see him. In the boy's face was 
 wonder, startled and bewildering; then his hands 
 clenched themselves together at his side with a start 
 of understanding. Waiting a moment, he walked 
 swiftly and noiselessly across the floor; and at that 
 moment Mr. Stanton had turned, still thoughtfully, 
 to stare at the wall before him. Something troubled 
 Mrs. Pinchin's usually cool and confident friend, as 
 one might have seen from the scowl in his eyes and 
 -the ruffling of his brows. Doubtless, Mr. Stanton 
 had excellent reasons for feeling troubled. For 
 years he had dominated Mrs. Pinchin's home as if 
 he were the genius of the place, and as if all within it 
 should cringe at a snap of his elegant fingers. Now 
 his reign seemed tottering and why ? The young 
 man going toward him, reached out a hand and 
 gripped Mr. Stanton by the shoulder. 
 
 " Let 's have a look at you," said Phil Geikie, 
 whirling around his astonished captive till they were 
 face to face. " So it 's Mr. Stanwood Geikie, is it ? 
 my dear Uncle Stanwood ! " 
 
 In that sudden juncture of alarm and rage, the 
 hawklike face lost its usual habit of scornful aplomb, 
 and convulsed itself into an ugly scowl. " Hands 
 
 374
 
 PHIL AND HIS SINGULAR UNCLE 
 
 off, you young cub ! " snarled Mr. Stanton ; or, more 
 properly speaking, Mr. Stanwood Geikie. For it 
 was he, indeed, Mr. Stanwood Geikie, who had 
 so long paraded under the alias of Mr. Stanton. 
 "Hands off, I say!" 
 
 His nephew, having satisfied himself as to Mr. 
 Stanton's real identity this Mr. Stanton whom he 
 had for days suspected in Corrie's chance references 
 to him having satisfied himself of this, Phil flung 
 him loose with a gesture that drove Uncle Stanwood 
 floundering against the wall. " You young whelp ! " 
 the man growled, and Phil laughed at him mirthlessly, 
 with a scorn that sent the blood mounting into the 
 hawklike face. " You young whelp ! I '11 make you 
 pay for this ! " he cried between his teeth, savagely. 
 Corrie looked on helplessly. 
 
 For until to-night, the girl had never so much as 
 dreamed the real significance of Mr. Stanton's 
 presence in that curious household. At times, of 
 course, she indeed suspected he had some connection 
 with the mystery there were, for example, those 
 instances when Mr. Stanton had shown his interest 
 in Mrs. Pinchin's affairs: The morning hour when 
 she had caught Mr. Stanton fumbling at the door of 
 Mrs. Pinchin's private room, and when afterwards, 
 he and Miss Maria had provided their curious en 
 counter on the stairs ; there was the equally meaning 
 occasion, too, when Mr. Stanton, having seen the 
 advertisement, had come running to Mrs. Pinchin's 
 home; and, to top it all off with another singular 
 event, one recalls the moment when the man, brushing 
 
 375
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 by Miss Freedlark Miss Fishhawk, as he had called 
 her then had forced his way into Mrs. Pinchin's 
 early hour privacy. But dulled and bemused by all 
 the other happenings that had crowded in on her, 
 Corrie had failed to grasp his real identity ; so Mr. 
 Stanton, announced suddenly at the drawing-room 
 door, had as suddenly revealed himself to Corrie in 
 his true relation both to her and Mrs. Pinchin. For, 
 in so many words, Mr. Stanton was her father. 
 
 But Phil had known or, rather, he had guessed. 
 " So it 's my dear Uncle Stanwood, is it," he 
 laughed scornfully, " who 's been setting his friend, 
 Mrs. Pinchin, on my trail? And what do they hope 
 to gain by their cleverness? I'll wager it's some 
 thing clever, anyway. Speak up, Uncle Stan ; what 
 is the swindle? " He stepped nearer as he spoke, and 
 the contemptuous laugh went out of his face, and 
 left him white, with his jaw squared determinedly. 
 "Answer me! What is your scoundrelly game?" he 
 gritted out, his eyes going threateningly to Uncle 
 Stanwood's tall collar, as if at the next move he 
 meant to pin him to the wall by the throat. 
 
 But Uncle Stanwood was not one who lacked 
 courage physical courage, at all events. He re 
 mained where he was without moving, and a faint, 
 mocking smile curled his lip, a grin insolent and cool. 
 It were as if Uncle Stanwood found himself at his 
 best and was enj oying it. " No, you won't dare 
 answer," said Phil again, scornfully, and turned 
 away from him. 
 
 Then the man leaning against the wall said 
 376
 
 PHIL AND HIS SINGULAR UNCLE 
 
 something beneath his breath, and what happened 
 afterward was very swift. But quick as the swing 
 ing forward of one form against the other, Corrie 
 was almost as quick. She was able, at all events, 
 to stay what else might have happened in Mrs. 
 Pinchin's drawing-room had she not been there to 
 prevent it. 
 
 " No no, no ! It 's abominable, and you can't ! 
 Can't ! Can't ! " she cried, fiercely sobbing it. 
 "Don't you realize who he is? I tell you, you shall 
 not ! Let him go ! " 
 
 The boy, white and shaking, flung the man away 
 from him again. " Did you hear what he said? The 
 dog ! " he growled. " It was about my father." 
 
 Corrie pushed him aside. " You must go go 
 home, Mr. Stanton," she whispered, panting with 
 terror and excitement. " Get your hat and coat, 
 please, and go quickly. The others will be coming 
 in here. They must not see you." 
 
 Mr. Stanton or Stanwood Geikie, if you choose 
 gave his nephew another mocking sneer and went. 
 The hangings dropped behind him, and then Corrie 
 turned to the boy. 
 
 "Phil oh, my heart's just breaking!" she 
 wailed, and buried her face in her arm, when for the 
 first time, now, the tears came streaming, abjectly 
 and with no courage left to restrain them. 
 
 "Will you go with me to-night?" he asked. 
 There was no answer. " Will you go ? " he asked 
 again, and stood waiting until there should be a lull 
 in her storm of woe. Still she made no reply; and 
 
 377
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 out in the hall footfalls sounded on the stairs; the 
 door slammed as Mr. Stanton departed for the night. 
 Then Corrie raised her face. 
 
 " Give me a little time to think, Phil. I can't drag 
 you down like this, when you have everything before 
 you. Let me try to reason it out. I know it 's 
 wrong wicked of me ; but I 'd like to think of it 
 a little while. Just to think of it, Phil, if nothing 
 else. Go now, won't you? " 
 
 " And shall I come back? " 
 
 " Yes, but please, please go ! " 
 
 Out in the dining room, the feast had progressed 
 as far as the salad. Two of the menservants, pass 
 ing around among the guests at the half-dozen small 
 tables, offered it on large platters ; and at their heels 
 came a third, pouring wine. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin sat enthroned at a table in the bay 
 window, darkly surveying the feast. Three others 
 sat with her; the new millionaire and his wife from 
 Riverside Drive, and Mr. Alfuente, who had been 
 beckoned, greatly to his own astonishment, to take 
 the seat when the hostess had seen Mr. Stanton bear 
 ing down upon it. And now that Mr. Stanton had 
 departed peevishly, Mrs. Pinchin found herself able 
 to give full attention to her banquet ; so she sat there 
 on the alert. 
 
 " Out home," said the lady from the middling 
 West, " we always put green peas in our chicken 
 salad." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin gave no heed. Her eye was on the 
 378
 
 PHIL AND HIS SINGULAR UNCLE 
 
 waiter with the champagne ; and when he drew nearer, 
 she beckoned to him energetically. 
 
 " Yes, madam." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin twitched him by the sleeve till his ear 
 was on a level with her mouth. " Don't give those 
 others more than one round of the champagne. If 
 they ask for it, fill them up on the burgundy. Cham 
 pagne for us here, though, as long as we want it 
 at this table, you understand." 
 
 "Yes, madam." 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin turned to the lady at her side. " Ex 
 cuse me; I was thinking about sending in a plate of 
 food for my paid companion. What was it you were 
 saying? " 
 
 379
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Early morning in Seventy-fifth Street, and the return of Miss 
 Maria. Her piteous appeal to Carrie. The dead 
 child. Mrs. Pinchin returns to her old self. Corrie 
 visits her aunt. The shape sitting in the gloom. 
 Mrs. Pinchin decides to explain. The stolen papers 
 and the scene in the private room. Mrs. Pinchin hat 
 her promised stroke at last. 
 
 MONDAY a bright April morning and the 
 day after Mrs. Pinchin's notable Sunday even 
 ing. In West Seventy-fifth Street, the first house 
 maids after the dawn had just begun their early 
 matinal labors of sweeping off the stoops, when a 
 gray, patient, weary figure alighted from a Columbus 
 Avenue car, and came toiling along the sidewalk. 
 In the slight form, stoop-shouldered, frail, and dowd- 
 ily attired, one detected something known and fa 
 miliar; and though the features were obscured by a 
 thick draping of voile, there was a hint from behind 
 the fabric of gold-framed spectacles, of uneasy, tired 
 eyes. They were red-rimmed eyes, too forlorn 
 and pitiable ; for this was Miss Maria, who had come 
 home at last. 
 
 Early as the hour was, Corrie had already risen. 
 Sleep had not restored her to the usual freshness and 
 spirit that youth enj oys after a night's repose ; for, 
 if the truth be told, Corrie had neither reposed nor 
 slept, but through the greater part of the night had 
 
 380
 
 THE STOLEN PAPERS 
 
 sat up in bed in the dark, her chin in her hand, and 
 her mind battling with thoughts from which there 
 was to be no escape even in slumber. Now, wan and 
 slow, she came down the stairs in Mrs. Pinchin's at 
 that exact and precise moment when the other figure, 
 also slow and wan, dragged herself up the stairs 
 outside. 
 
 Mounting like one that treads a ladder to the gal 
 lows, Miss Maria blindly fumbled for the bell; and 
 then, after she had rung, what little strength she 
 possessed seemed to leave her. Pushing back her 
 veil, she leaned against the wall of the vestibule, and 
 gagged with a sob that racked her from head to foot. 
 Poor thing! Poor, dejected creature! For though 
 hers was a nature always ready at the first cloud of 
 trouble to turn on the waterworks, her grief now 
 appeared to be of a profundity too great to remedy 
 itself in the usual solace of tears. So there she was, 
 leaning against the wall, her face filled with woe and 
 her slight figure bent over like one that bears a too 
 heavy burden up the hill. 
 
 " Why, Miss Maria ! " 
 
 The gray figure turned dumbly and swayed into 
 the hall. She looked at Corrie dully, in her eyes that 
 fixity of expression one notes in the staring orbs of 
 a sleepwalker. " My Is Judie Mrs. Pinchin 
 is she down yet? " Before Corrie could answer, Miss 
 Maria gave a little shake of remembrance. " Oh, 
 no of course. I must go to her. I must go to 
 her." 
 
 She thrust back her veil a little further, and turned 
 381
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 her dry, hazy eyes on the staircase, as if measuring 
 her weakness against the strength it would require 
 to drag herself to the floor above. Then she made 
 the effort, and halfway down the hall swayed, 
 and but for her outstretched hand supporting 
 herself against the wall, Miss Maria might have 
 fallen. 
 
 " Oh ! let me help you. Are you ill ? " cried 
 Corrie, alarmed. 
 
 Miss Maria smiled miserably. " I can't do it. I 
 can't walk up those stairs. Why, I have n't strength 
 enough." 
 
 She swayed again, and Corrie put an arm around 
 her. " You must sit down. Here, lean on me. 
 There 's a chair over there. Oh ! she 's going to 
 faint ! " cried Corrie. 
 
 But Miss Maria, once she had reached the chair, 
 recovered herself. " You must help me I 've got 
 to see her up the stairs," she mumbled brokenly. 
 " I don't think I can do it alone." 
 
 " Poor, poor lady ! you can't ! You must sit 
 here till you 're stronger. Oh, Miss Maria ! what has 
 happened to you? " 
 
 Maggie, the waitress, in morning disarray, looked 
 out from the pantry, staring when she saw the pic 
 ture in the hall. " Maggie ! " Corrie called to her 
 excitedly, " go tell Mrs. Pinchin. Rap on her door 
 till you rouse her. Poor, poor lady ! " murmured 
 Corrie, trying to undo Miss Maria's wraps, as the 
 limp form shrank down in the chair. " There ! Now 
 let me get off your hat, too." 
 
 382
 
 THE STOLEN PAPERS 
 
 Then Miss Maria, gagging again, shook out a sob 
 that seemed at last to break open the springs of 
 grief; and with the hot tears pouring down her 
 face, she clutched at Corrie's hands. " Oh, be kind 
 
 kind to me ! just a little kind ! " she wailed, and 
 clung to the girl. " But you are kind, aren't you? 
 
 and I think it breaks my heart, too. Oh, Corrie ! 
 I have n't always been wicked and cruel. I did n't 
 mean to be. No no, no ! " wept Miss Maria, in a 
 choking voice. " I 've been a little good a little 
 kind, too, have n't I, Corrie ? Tell me I have n't al 
 ways been cruel and wicked, because I I did n't 
 mean to be ! not always." 
 
 " What is this? " gurgled a thick, freezing voice. 
 " Maria! " 
 
 In the emotion of that strained moment neither 
 had heard Mrs. Pinchin stumping down the stairs. 
 She stood now above them, a hand on the balusters, 
 the other gripping her cane; and her face was 
 white and angry. Whether she had heard Miss 
 Maria's hysterical plea, and whether it alone was to 
 explain her wrath and alarm, was a matter Corrie 
 could not know. But it was still a fact and a 
 singular one, into the bargain that Miss Maria, at 
 the first word, crouched down in her seat silenced, 
 and then, as if recalling what had brought her home, 
 she got to her feet, and with her hands outstretched, 
 plunged toward the thunder-faced woman on the 
 stairs. 
 
 "Oh, Judie Judie! It's all, all over! My 
 baby 's gone. She died at midnight. Be good to me 
 
 383
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 a little kind. I had to come to you ! Oh, Judie, 
 Judie ! because my heart is broken." 
 
 The wrath died instantly out of Mrs. Pinchin's 
 face; she appeared to understand. "Gone?" she 
 cried in an undertone. " Oh-h ! " said Mrs. Pinchin, 
 in a rumbling voice that was almost, if not quite, a 
 groan. " GONE ! " she repeated, and with that still 
 echoing hollowly in her throat, Mrs. Pinchin hobbled 
 down the few remaining stairs ; and with the first 
 show of tenderness and compassion Corrie had ever 
 known her to reveal, she reached out her arms and 
 drew the wailing, clinging Miss Maria to her breast. 
 " My poor, poor girl ! " uttered Mrs. Pinchin ; and 
 then a single tear gemmed her puffy eyelid, and 
 like at least one drop of the gentle rain of heaven, 
 fell in its quality of mercy, twice-blessed, on the head 
 buried in her arms. " There ! there ! Hush ! " 
 soothed Mrs. Pinchin. " Come, now ; I '11 take you 
 up to your room," she said ; and putting a stalwart 
 arm around the other's shoulders, she waved Corrie 
 away with a fierce toss of her head; and turned 
 slowly to the stairs. Step by step upward, her hand 
 gripping the rail, Mrs. Pinchin climbed, lurching 
 powerfully at every tread, and with each lurch, drag 
 ging Miss Maria with her. " Poor, poor girl ! " 
 croaked Mrs. Pinchin ; and then the two passed from 
 sight around the bend of the stair. 
 
 But as Corrie turned away, she heard one last wail 
 break sobbingly from Miss Maria's lips. " Oh, Judie 
 
 dear Judie ! Now say you '11 give it up ! Say 
 you 're willing now ! " 
 
 384
 
 THE STOLEN PAPERS 
 
 " Hush ! " answered Mrs. Pinchin, in her mannish 
 voice. 
 
 That Monday morning Corrie breakfasted alone. 
 Not that she ate or was able to eat ; for after chip 
 ping the morning's egg, she sat back and stared at 
 it reflectively. Upstairs, in her room, Miss Maria 
 had been put to bed; and Mrs. Pinchin, sitting be 
 side the sufferer, had ordered a tray sent up for her 
 self. On the tray were fruit, oatmeal, a bit of 
 
 But never mind. Two hours passed, and then Mrs. 
 Pinchin emerged, bearing the tray in her hands. 
 
 " Order my carriage at once," she said, and in the 
 command there remained none of the placating un 
 certainty that had accented her speech during these 
 last trying days. Instead, there was the old force, 
 the familiar, masterful decisiveness ; in that brief 
 though vital moment, Mrs. Pinchin fully appeared 
 to have come into her own again. " Take this," she 
 ordered, and thrust the tray into Corrie's hands. 
 " And telephone at once to the stable. I 'm in a 
 hurry." 
 
 " Shall I stay with Miss Maria while you 're out ? " 
 asked Corrie, patiently. 
 
 " No," grunted Mrs. Pinchin, crisply. " No ; 
 keep out of here," she growled; and then with a 
 stare, she retreated backwards into the darkened 
 room, and closed the door with a slam. 
 
 Corrie, after telephoning, strayed into the drawing- 
 room, where she looked from the front windows a 
 while. Afterwards, she wandered thoughtfully into a 
 25 385
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 dim corner, where she sat down and frowned. In ad 
 dition, she bit her lip nervously, and presently, she 
 got up and paced the floor, her head lowered in cogi 
 tation. " Shall I ? " she murmured to herself, and 
 a half hour passed. Then Mrs. Pinchin's brougham 
 arrived at the door and Corrie looked up with a 
 nod. " Yes, I will ! " said Corrie, pressing her lips 
 together firmly; and pushing aside the draperies at 
 the door, she walked out into the hall. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin, attired in a black turban, a black 
 wrap, black gloves, and a sable veil, was coming down 
 the stairs. She looked at Corrie roughly, grunted, 
 and pushed on toward the door. 
 
 " May I do anything for Miss Maria ? " asked the 
 girl, quietly. 
 
 " No ! " grunted Mrs. Pinchin, stalking on. 
 
 "Do you think she'd like some broth?" inquired 
 Corrie, hopefully. 
 
 " No ! " growled Mrs. Pinchin. " No ! stop both 
 ering me," she rumbled. " I tell you, no ! " 
 
 " Oh ! " murmured Corrie ; and then the street door 
 banged, as Mrs. Pinchin, all in black, blackly went 
 on her way. 
 
 " Well," murmured Corrie, reflectively. Biting 
 her lip again, she slowly climbed the staircase. " I 
 will ! " she said with determination, going up ; and 
 ten minutes later, when she appeared in hat and 
 jacket, " I will ! I just will ! " said Corrie, coming 
 down. " I '11 hear what she says, anyway." 
 
 If Corrie, at the precise moment she came down 
 the steps of Mrs. Pinchin's, had thought to look 
 
 386
 
 THE STOLEN PAPERS 
 
 toward the distant avenue, her eye, perchance, might 
 have descried a well-known figure now hurrying along 
 the sidewalk. It was a man's figure, and one needed 
 only a single glance at the hawklike features and the 
 iron-gray whiskers of a past fashion, to identify the 
 person as Mrs. Pinchin's familiar guest. Once more, 
 too, Uncle Stanwood, alias Mr. Stanton, walked as 
 if he were in an un-Chesterfieldian hurry, such was 
 the speed with which he darted along close to the 
 area railings. But the very instant the spry, cool 
 eyes clapped themselves on the girl coming down 
 the steps of the house for which he himself was aim 
 ing, the gentleman halted abruptly ; and for the 
 briefest fraction of time, it looked as if he even con 
 templated flight. 
 
 But after all, there was no real cause, unless it 
 were the movings of his own conscience, to provoke 
 Uncle Stanwood into a panic. Corrie, with her eyes 
 lowered thoughtfully, slowly descended the steps; 
 a few minutes later, apparently to his very great re 
 lief, she turned the corner on her way to the Seventy- 
 second Street station of the L road. Then the 
 gentleman bustled along again, leaving Corrie quite 
 ignorant of this amusing little by-play. 
 
 But at this juncture, the troubled girl was in no 
 mood to have enjoyed either Uncle Stanwood's ca 
 prices or any other evidence of his spry and singular 
 nature. A Sixth Avenue train was just drawing up 
 to the platform as she arrived there; and again ir 
 resolution marked itself in her face. " Shall I, or 
 shall I not? " It appeared to be a remarkably por- 
 
 387
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 tentous question at the minute; and hesitating 
 whether she should board the train or not, she was 
 struggling back from the crowd rushing for the cars, 
 when the gentlemanly guard helped her to make up 
 her mind. " Both gates, there ! Step lively now ! " 
 roared the polite functionary, furiously rattling the 
 ironwork ; " 's a Bat'ry 'rain," or words to that 
 effect; and so Corrie drifted aboard, urged irreso 
 lutely by his exhortation. 
 
 The frown of disquiet, however, remained on her 
 face as she rode southward. At Fifty-ninth Street 
 it had grown deep ; at Fifty-third Street, where 
 the train swung eastward to Sixth Avenue, it had 
 grown deeper. At Fiftieth Street, where the guard 
 put in a scowling face to announce the station, Cor 
 rie scowled back at him frankly. At Forty-second 
 Street, the cloud had spread over the entire horizon 
 of her thought; but after passing Thirty -third 
 Street, there appeared a rift in the sky, just a 
 little glimpse of sunshine, gleaming weakly through 
 the vapors. Then came the successive stages 
 Twenty-eighth Street, Twenty-third, and Eigh 
 teenth Street; at Eighteenth Street, the heavens 
 began to clear. " Fourteenth Street ! " bawled 
 the guard, and Corrie looked up nodding to her 
 self. Arising, she walked down the car aisle 
 at the heels of the mob struggling to get off, 
 and took a seat near the door. At Eighth Street 
 " Wythth Street ! " sneered the guard she 
 alighted, walked down to the street, and having 
 edged over far enough to see the clock on Jef- 
 
 388
 
 THE STOLEN PAPERS 
 
 ferson Market tower, she looked up, studying its 
 face. 
 
 " A quarter of," she murmured to herself. 
 " Well, anyway, she 's my aunt ! " 
 
 Having uttered this cryptic remark, she turned, 
 and with her face set in decision, crossed Greenwich 
 Avenue, and hurried along the crooked detour of 
 Tenth Street. 
 
 For Corrie's mission was an adventurous one. 
 Since the hour when Mr. Biggamore had repeated his 
 interview with Miss Tollabee, and at the same time 
 had revealed not only the fact that Miss Tollabee was 
 Corrie's aunt, but that Mrs. Pinchin was Corrie's 
 mother, the girl had been trying to make up her mind 
 to call on her new-found relative. But why ? -r- 
 someone will ask. Why? Well, deep down in Cor 
 rie's mind was a thought that she might throw her 
 self on her aunt's mercy, and beg for shelter under 
 a roof, which, after all is said, was, at the least, re 
 spectable. There, in time, perhaps, she might hope 
 
 to But no matter now what Corrie hoped ; it 
 
 will be enough to say that the hope, shadowy as it 
 was, and guileless in its innocence, had something to 
 do with the warm-hearted, impulsive boy, who was 
 already willing to chance his future for the sake of 
 her and for her own sake. So armed by her decision, 
 Corrie plunged down into Tenth Street, and almost 
 instantly looked around her with astonishment. 
 
 For somehow the detached thoroughfare appealed, 
 in her familiar study of streets and the houses 
 therein, as a by-way she had known. Had she ever 
 
 389
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 traveled it before in her quest of the house with the 
 white pillars, the green blinds, and the fan light over 
 the door? She thought not, after a moment's re 
 flection. No, in her other visits to the quarter, she 
 had passed by along Greenwich Avenue to the streets 
 beyond. But house by house, as she looked up into 
 the doorways for the number of Miss Tollabee's 
 home, the thoroughfare grew more and more vaguely 
 familiar, as if it answered in its details to some 
 graphic visual image indelibly photographed in mind, 
 perhaps as the background to some unusual event. 
 There before her now, was a square, plain-faced dom 
 icile of brick, its door graced by a large and shining 
 knocker; and in front of it was a little garden no 
 larger than a tea tray, blooming raggedly with a few 
 old-fashioned flowers that so far, had escaped the 
 forays of the neighborhood's urchin freebooters. 
 
 Now where? where? 
 
 Then again, like a blaze of light, remembrance 
 flashed through her mind, and she knew ! Yes ! 
 she 'd seen the house before ! That day Miss Maria 
 had brought her away from Mrs. Pinchin's to play 
 with a crippled child! Corrie knew now, indeed! 
 This was the house, and that child must have been 
 the Tollabee child. But why had Miss Maria brought 
 her here? And what had Miss Maria to do with it? 
 Corrie looked up sharply at the silent windows ; they 
 were closed and their shades were tightly drawn 
 all but the window of that one room where the 
 stricken child had sat, drooling, blind-eyed in its 
 vacuity of mind. That window was now raised a nar- 
 
 390
 
 THE STOLEN PAPERS 
 
 row six inches or so, and its lowered curtain flapped 
 slowly back and forth. " Oh," said Corrie, des 
 perately ; " I think I 'm going out of my head." 
 
 Marching straight up the steps to the door, she 
 laid hold of the bell hanger and rang. 
 
 In the house's quiet depths footfalls sounded, a 
 heavy tread that marked time to a thump, thwmp, 
 thump, as if someone knocked in answer to the peal 
 of the bell. The noise kept on, growing more dis 
 tinct, and then she heard other footfalls moving 
 briskly on the basement stairs; they paused and it 
 seemed to Corrie that she heard a voice mumble out 
 an order to the approaching servant. Afterwards 
 a door closed in the nearby passage; the knob rat 
 tled, as a hand sprang the catch, and Corrie drew in 
 her breath. 
 
 " If you please," she said nervously, " I would 
 like to see Miss Margaret Tollabee." 
 
 It was a servant that opened. She looked uncer 
 tainly at the visitor, and when she answered, it was 
 in that hushed voice which servants affect when there 
 is grave illness or a death in the house. 
 
 " She 's not here, ma'am," said the maid, speaking 
 from behind the half-opened door, and still clinging 
 to the knob. 
 
 " Not in? When will Miss Tollabee be at home? " 
 
 Without answering, the servant drew in her head, 
 and conversed in even more lowered tones, apparently 
 with someone standing behind her. 
 
 " Just a moment, ma'am," said the servant ; and 
 with no further apology or explanation, calmly closed 
 
 391
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 the door in Corrie's face. Then through the glass 
 dimly, she saw a form flit across the hall; and just 
 as she had made up her mind that Miss Margaret 
 Tollabee stood inside and that she had reasons for 
 not wishing to meet her sister's offspring, the door 
 was slowly opened, and the servant appeared again. 
 
 " Please to come in, ma'am," she said, and made 
 way for Corrie to pass. 
 
 The little parlor into which she was shown by the 
 maid was dark, uncommonly dark. In the further 
 corner near the window, a ray of light streamed 
 through a chink between the drawn shade and the 
 woodwork; and though this small illumination failed 
 to light up more than a square yard or so of carpet, 
 it was strong enough to guide her to a chair. Going 
 straight to it, Corrie made no effort to pierce the 
 gloom at the room's further end ; and dropping into 
 the seat, she bent her head in thought. For now that 
 she had arrived, what was she to say to her aunt? 
 Should she throw herself on Miss Tollabee's mercy, 
 saying who she was and begging her protection, or 
 should she first make sure of her aunt's feelings 
 toward her? After all, Miss Tollabee might not 
 feel inclined to view the matter charitably; and 
 furthermore, there was no direct certainty that Mrs. 
 Pinchin was really the missing sister. It was a fact, 
 of course, that Corrie was sure of it, yet she was 
 still clear-headed enough to reason that Stanwood 
 Geikie's presence at Mrs. Pinchin's might be ac 
 counted for in other ways the possibility that 
 Mrs. Pinchin was only another of his dupes an- 
 
 392
 
 THE STOLEN PAPERS 
 
 other of his victims. " No," said Corrie, musing 
 aloud, "nothing is certain!" and just then came 
 to her the creeping knowledge she was not alone in 
 that room, but that someone sat in the gloom, 
 fixedly staring at her. 
 
 The parlor was long and narrow, its further end 
 lost in darkness. Down the middle a long table 
 stretched; and as Corrie's eyes strained through 
 the gloom, she saw vaguely at the table's other end, 
 a heavier bulk of shadow, immobile and large. There 
 her straining eyes swam with the effort; she looked 
 again, and her sight arranged to the room's obscur 
 ity, gradually separated that deeper shape of dark 
 ness from the deep shadows at the background. 
 
 Someone was standing there, a hand resting on 
 the table's edge, and across the sombrous space be 
 tween, a ghostly face stared fixedly at hers. 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Corrie; "Miss Tollabee!" 
 and then, as the figure lurched forward : " Mrs. 
 Pinchin! " 
 
 For it was she, indeed. With a hop, a skip, and a 
 jump, she lumbered across the room and gripped 
 the girl by the wrist. " So you 've tracked me here 
 at last, have you? " she hissed beneath her breath. 
 " So you 've snooped, and followed, and spied regard 
 less, here to this house of death? Girl! " she rumbled 
 with a kind of savage exultance of her fury ; " will 
 nothing ever please you? Now, what in God's name 
 is it you want to know ? " she cried, forgetting all 
 else in her blazing exasperation. " What do you 
 wish to know ? "
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 She reached out her hand and snatched at the 
 shade, flooding the room with light, so that she might 
 peer into Corrie's face. " What else, I say ? 
 Come ! Out with it, won't you ? for I 'd like to 
 know what that prying old woman fool of a man has 
 set you up to now! You know who I mean? Now, 
 tell me what it is ! " 
 
 Corrie knew well enough that she meant Mr. Big- 
 gamore; she fastened her eyes on Mrs. Pinchin's. 
 
 " I wish to know nothing from you," she answered, 
 making no effort to free herself from Mrs. Pinchin's 
 grip. " It was enough when I learned you were my 
 mother." 
 
 "Hunh!" Mrs. Pinchin expressed no surprise; 
 her grunt was halfway between a sneer and a snarl. 
 " Well, is n't that enough to satisfy you ? Is n't that 
 enough? " 
 
 Corrie smiled at her wanly. " Yes, that 's quite 
 enough. I don't care to learn any more." 
 
 " Then what did you come here for? " 
 
 Corrie raised her eyes to the face pressed close to 
 hers, and answered : " I came here to see my aunt, 
 Margaret Tollabee. I came to ask her to help me. 
 I know she 's wished for years, Mrs. Pinchin, to get 
 her sister back to her; and until I found you here, 
 I didn't think you had heart enough to answer your 
 sister's prayer. Mrs. Pinchin, I came to ask her 
 whether she 'd take me, if you would n't go back to 
 her. I wanted her to give me a decent home. And 
 so now you know, Mrs. Pinchin." 
 
 On Mrs. Pinchin's face there grew a look, first of 
 394
 
 THE STOLEN PAPERS 
 
 gaping stupefaction ; then, as the girl went on, of a 
 growing, derisive, unaccountable jocundity, hearty 
 in its merry and amazed contempt. A shout of 
 laughter, that was as suddenly stilled, however, 
 burst unexpectedly from her lips; and she rocked 
 back her head, and gazed at Corrie with her jaws 
 working frantically together. " Oho ! " tittered 
 Mrs. Pinchin, in a thick, throaty giggle, " so you 
 wanted her to take care of you ? Ho ! ho ! and 
 well, miss ! " she cried, suddenly beginning to lick her 
 lips, " since it 's a home you wish oh, I think I '11 
 die of it well, we '11 go right to our home on the 
 instant ! Come ! " she ordered, and there all her im 
 pious laughter fled out, and left her face screwed 
 up into an ugly frown. " Come along now ! " she 
 said, and tightened her grip on Corrie's wrist. " Ask 
 her for a home ! and oh, to think a daughter of 
 mine should be such a fool ! " 
 
 " Wait! " said Corrie. " Before we go, let me say 
 this to you, Mrs. Pinchin." She looked her full in 
 the eyes. " I shall not ask my aunt to take me, 
 because I 'm afraid now you may be with her too. I 
 shall not stay with you anywhere, Mrs. Pinchin, 
 and now I shall tell you why." She stooped, drew in 
 her breath, and then said it between her teeth. 
 " Because though you are my mother, Mrs. Pinchin, 
 I think you a wicked and shameless creature, 
 without heart ! or soul ! or pity ! There, that 's 
 why, Mrs. Pinchin ! " 
 
 " Silence ! " roared Mrs. Pinchin, and dragged her 
 
 through the doorway. 
 
 395
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 They went out into the street, Mrs. Pinchin still 
 clinging to Corrie's wrist. " You need not hold me, 
 Mrs. Pinchin," said Corrie, quietly ; " I will go with 
 you." Her captor released her then, and went 
 thumping along in silence. They crossed Greenwich 
 Avenue, rounded the edge of Jefferson Market, and 
 there Mrs. Pinchin set her course for Ninth Street. 
 Hobbling over the crossing, she raised her stick, and 
 began furiously signaling to a carriage that stood 
 halfway down the block. Presently, the drowsy 
 coachman saw the figure beckoning so at the street 
 end, and picked up his lines; and as the equipage 
 drew near, Corrie recognized it and the lame and 
 halt roans with their jingling pole chains. 
 
 " Home ! " growled Mrs. Pinchin, and thrust Cor 
 rie inside. She got in ponderously, wheezing and 
 grunting, and slammed the door behind her. Then, 
 when the brougham had turned into Fifth Avenue, 
 Corrie looked up from her hands to pore a moment 
 on the scowling profile, dark and unlovely with its 
 thick-lipped, heavy-lidded symbolism of greed and 
 self-indulgence. " Mrs. Pinchin," she said, still 
 quietly ; " Tell me are you really really 
 honestly my mother? " 
 
 " Silence ! " thundered Mrs. Pinchin again, anni 
 hilating her with a glance. 
 
 So Corrie went home again, dragged back to it, 
 as if all roads led to but that one terminal of life. 
 
 The clocks and chimes and whistles were just voic 
 ing the hour of noon, when Mrs. Pinchin's brougham 
 passed out from between the Park's hedgerows into 
 
 396
 
 THE STOLEN PAPERS 
 
 Central Park West, and turned along Seventy-fifth 
 Street. Home again and what a home, indeed ! 
 Licking her lips and wheezing, Mrs. Pinchin grasped 
 her cane, and edging forward in her seat, she had the 
 door opened before the brougham had come to the 
 curb. 
 
 " Get out ! " she growled succinctly ; and Corrie 
 having gotten out, Mrs. Pinchin turned to the coach 
 man. " Wait here. I 'm going back ; " and then 
 to Corrie ; " you come along with me." Leaning on 
 her stick she heaved up the steps, fished in her reti 
 cule for a pass key, waved Corrie inside, and then 
 following, slammed the door behind her. 
 
 " Now, my girl," said Mrs. Pinchin, darkly, 
 " we '11 talk it all over. " You 're my daughter 
 yes ! And you know who your father is, too 
 humh ! Very well then ! And so now," she observed, 
 unlocking the door of her private room ; " mother 
 and daughter '11 go in here, for a while, and talk all 
 this over from start to finish. I 'm going to tell you 
 all about it, daughter ! " she cried in a mocking voice, 
 brutal in her slumbering wrath, " because I want to 
 get it all clear in your head. So now now " 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin stopped, drew in her breath, while 
 her jaw slowly fell. She stood with her fingers still 
 on the knob, the door opened, and her eyes riveted on 
 the room inside. Then her tongue spread out, thickly 
 licking her upper lip ; there was a momentary spasm 
 in her throat that passed, leaving her jaws grinding 
 together fiercely ; and Mrs. Pinchin hopped forward 
 and raised a terrible cry. 
 
 397
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 For there stood Mrs. Pinchin's desk with its lid 
 pried open and broken ; and there was her safe with 
 its door swinging wide; papers littered the floor as 
 if a Gargantuan snow flaw had burst inside, and 
 scattered the flakes broadcast; and over all this 
 devastation, a fallen inkwell, tumbled from the desk, 
 had splashed a torrent of black which had been 
 ground in deeper amid the ruin by some ruthless 
 heel. 
 
 Again Mrs. Pinchin's voice raised itself, echoing 
 through the quiet house. She flung herself on her 
 knees, snatching at the papers, unmindful of the 
 dripping ink. Her hands, in a moment, were black 
 with it; she paused long enough in her furious 
 search, to brush back her veil, and a wide smear 
 traced itself across her face, bringing out in ghastly 
 contrast the pallor of her skin. " Gone ! Gone! 
 Lost ! Stolen! " She raised her lamentation al 
 most to the keyed-up stridency of a howl. " Stolen ! 
 Gone ! Gone ! " she wailed, sobbing it from the 
 depth of her chest. 
 
 " Mrs. Pinchin! " gasped Corrie. 
 
 Then her eyes rolled around till she saw the girl 
 at the door; and a terrible transformation spread 
 over her convulsed and twitching features. " You ! " 
 she cried, and by a powerful effort, heaved herself 
 massively to her feet. " You you 've got them. 
 Give me back my Tollabee papers." 
 
 With a quick movement, she reached out a claw 
 and dragged Corrie into the room. Panting now, 
 hoisting up the breath from her lungs with an effort, 
 
 398
 
 THE STOLEN PAPERS 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin slammed the door shut, and with a 
 groping hand outstretched to support her, she 
 planted her back against it. 
 
 " Give them up ! Give them up ! " she choked 
 and pointed a gnarled, trembling finger at the girl. 
 " You took them and give me back my Tolla- 
 bee papers." 
 
 Outside in the hall, there was a scurry of feet; 
 someone drummed frantically on the panels; an 
 equally frantic voice begged Mrs. Pinchin to open 
 up; and to add to the uproar, the doorbell, with a 
 shrill, startling insistency, began to clatter in spurts. 
 
 Corrie clenched both hands at her side, and bent 
 a frightened look at the swaying woman. 
 
 " The Tollabee papers ! How did you get them, 
 Mrs. Pinchin ? " she cried. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin made no answer to the question. 
 " My papers the papers you took ! " she gasped, 
 and her voice whispered it from far away, choking 
 and minute. Into Mrs. Pinchin's face had come a 
 brick-red glow, flinging its signals widely. "You 
 can't g-go leave the room t-till I I my pa 
 pers." One hand reached up, wandering to her 
 throat. " Why, I I I feel so " 
 
 " Mrs. Pinchin ! Mrs. Pinchin ! you are not my 
 mother! You have not told me the truth. Where 
 did you get the Tollabee papers?" 
 
 Again a fierce drumming on the panels, and Miss 
 Maria's piercing voice, crying: " Let me in! Judie 
 Judie! Let me in!" 
 
 For one instant Mrs. Pinchin stared at Corrie 
 399
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 blindly, her eyelids fluttering. "I I why, I 
 
 cannot wmhl what " 
 
 Moaning once, Mrs. Pinchin swayed, recovered 
 herself, and then with a groan, pitched forward on 
 her face. Her promised stroke had come. 
 
 400
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 In which the tide turns from the ebb and bears back Mrs. 
 Pinchin to the shores of Life. The watcher by the bed 
 side. Why Come refused to see her lover. Mrs. 
 Pinchin regains consciousness. Mrs. Pinchin's wink 
 and its startling effects. Margaret ToUabee learns tardily 
 that she is, after all, a good soul. 
 
 T TNQUESTIONABLY a fine state of affairs! 
 
 *-' The crash of that massive figure tumbling like 
 an ox felled in the shambles was echoed instantly 
 by a wilder pounding on the door. " Oh ! will you 
 let me in? " shrilled Miss Maria, and there followed 
 another crash, as she backed off and threw her body 
 against the panels. " Let me in ! Let me in ! " 
 
 But Mrs. Pinchin lay outstretched, her disordered 
 bulk effectually obstructing the way. Her breath 
 came slowly and noisily ; her head had turned to one 
 side, disclosing her gross and now more sensual pro 
 file, repellent in the suffused empurplement of its 
 skin, and her hands, loose and incapable, upturned 
 themselves amid the ink-stained litter on the floor. 
 Surely enough, the stroke had come, just as she so 
 frequently had promised herself. 
 
 Poor Corrie ! As the heavy figure swayed forward, 
 
 staggering, the girl had put out a hand to catch Mrs. 
 
 Pinchin before she fell. But her arm owned no 
 
 strength to support a bulk like that; she had been 
 
 26 401
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 thrust backward by the weight. Recovering herself, 
 she raised her voice in a cry of alarm, and then fell 
 on her knees beside the prostrate woman. 
 
 " Let me in ! Let me in ! " babbled Miss Maria, 
 struggling to force the door. " Owpen it oop ! Ow- 
 pen it oop ! " came Maggie's brogue, added to the 
 clamor ; and then a man's voice raised itself. " Hi ! 
 hi ! een there ! you ! " 
 
 The girl made one ineffectual effort to drag Mrs. 
 Pinchin's form away. Then she reached over and 
 turned the key; outside, all three were shoving 
 against the panels, and the door slowly moved inward, 
 pushing the inert figure on before it. 
 
 Miss Maria, aroused from her bed by Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's shout, had sprung down the stairs without 
 waiting to rearrange her attire. A flannel dressing- 
 gown incompletely hid the fact that she wore a night 
 dress underneath, and her hair, done up into a 
 meager braid, stood out behind her as stiff as a sea 
 man's tarry queue. " Judie! " she cried, as her eyes 
 fell on the stricken figure. " Oh ! is she dead ? " 
 gasped Miss Maria. " Oh, Judie ! are you dead ? 
 Are you? Is she? Tell me she isn't dead!" 
 she wailed, glancing terrifiedly at Corrie. 
 
 The girl had taken Mrs. Pinchin's head in her lap. 
 " Go get a doctor someone ! Quick ! run and 
 get a doctor." Maggie stood in the doorway, her 
 mouth agape, and over her shoulder peered the 
 startled face of Signore Alfuente. He had come, it 
 appeared, to keep his engagement with Mrs. Pin- 
 chin, arriving at the crucial moment of that en- 
 
 402
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S WINK 
 
 counter in the private room. " You you, Mr. 
 Alfuente. There 's a doctor a few doors down the 
 street. Oh, why don't you go? Maggie, you go!" 
 she cried, as the musician seemed unable to 
 understand. 
 
 Miss Maria's eyes suddenly had grown hard and 
 vixenish. " What happened? " she demanded, and 
 then she raised an accusing finger. " You did this. 
 You 're to blame ! You 've killed my poor sister 
 it was you! Oh, Judie and I thought you were 
 coming back to me ! " wailed Miss Maria, and fell to 
 beating her hands against her sides. 
 
 Both Maggie and the Signore had departed, the 
 musician comprehending at last what was required 
 of him. Miss Maria, clasping her hands on her 
 breast, kneeled down beside Mrs. Pinchin. " Oh, 
 Judie ! and I thought you 'd go home with me 
 again, and now Oh, she 's dead dead ! " sobbed 
 Miss Maria, rocking to and fro. 
 
 " She 's not dead," said Corrie, struggling to keep 
 her wits; "you can hear her breathe. There! I 
 think she 's coming to. Don't you see her eyes? " 
 
 Miss Maria shoved Corrie away. She took Mrs. 
 Pinchin's vast figure in her arms, and rocked her 
 like a child. " Get away get away from here, you 
 wicked, wicked girl! " she cried at Corrie. " You 've 
 never made anything but trouble since you were born. 
 Now you've killed her! Get away! oh, Judie! 
 Judie! Judie!" 
 
 They fetched a doctor from somewhere, a young 
 man who came hurrying with his black leather pill 
 
 403
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 bag, and another case of instruments. Maggie had 
 found him, and from Maggie's hysteria, the young 
 practitioner had n't been able to decide whether Mrs. 
 Pinchin had fallen in a fit, or down an airshaft. 
 But at a first glance he knew. " First or second 
 stroke? " he asked briskly, going to work at 
 once. " Second, I should say. Now calm yourself, 
 madam ; " this to Miss Maria who had begun again 
 to rock to and fro. " Second? ah, yes ; I thought 
 so! Hmph! Quite lame before, as I remember." 
 
 A moment later came a second physician, Mr. Al- 
 fuente trotting at his heels. " Morning, Bronson." 
 
 " Findlay. Patient of yours ? " 
 
 The second comer shook his head. " Pretty bad? " 
 
 " Can't say yet. You 'd better give me a hand 
 here." 
 
 Together they got Mrs. Pinchin up the stairs, and 
 laid her on the massive four-poster in her room. 
 Miss Maria went with them, and Corrie, too. But 
 at the door of Mrs. Pinchin's room, the dowdy, 
 stoop-shouldered, weeping pitiable figure turned and 
 barred the way. " You shall not come in here ! " she 
 said, drawing up her figure to its full height. " Go ! " 
 she said, and in her thin, uncomely face there shone, 
 for the moment, a dignity of force and grandeur that 
 transfigured Miss Maria almost to the point of no 
 bility. " Go ! " she repeated ; " I shall care for my 
 sister alone," she said, and closed the door in Corrie's 
 face. 
 
 Mr. Alfuente, after the first momentary shock of 
 dismay, had agreeably recovered himself; and now, 
 
 404
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S WINK 
 
 so far from the thought of taking his departure, 
 the gentleman stood in the drawing-room below, 
 idly twirling his far-famed moustaches. Hearing 
 Corrie's footfalls on the stair, he recovered himself 
 even more completely, and with a flashing gleam of 
 teeth and an even more alluring smile in his velvety 
 eyes, threw himself into an attitude to await the 
 young woman's coming. 
 
 Now, shall it be said that the foreign gentleman's 
 chivalry and respect for women was of the same high 
 order as that for which all the Continental males 
 and especially those of Latin origin are so justly 
 and unquestionably renowned? Yes let us say so, 
 indeed; for the musician was no exception to the 
 rule. Corrie was only a paid dependent, so in order 
 with the privileges of that historically perfect chiv 
 alry of his European kind, Corrie was to him fair 
 prey for his blandishments. Kicking his foot behind 
 him, smiling, twirling his moustache, and widening 
 his greasy eyes, Mr. Alfuente advanced, determined 
 to make good use of his tete a tete with his charming 
 and unsuspecting inamorata. 
 
 " Oh ! " exclaimed Corrie, and tried to retreat. 
 
 " Ah! You will not go till I hear? Your good 
 lady, is she very ill?" said the Signore, only the 
 will became veal in his insinuating appeal, while the 
 HI squirmed out of his speech as an eel. " I stay with 
 you here, prahapps, to hear the good rapport." 
 
 Corrie said she could tell him nothing yet; if he 
 cared to learn he must come again, later. Immedi 
 ately another flashing smile. The Signore, indeed, 
 
 405
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 would come again, and he would expect to see the fair 
 young lady with the adorable eyes. Prahapps, when 
 he ratturned, she again would see heem, and after 
 wards even go for what-d' you-cal-heem ah ! si! 
 a little stroll in the air. 
 
 It is questionable whether ever before in his career 
 of European chivalry, the Signore received so im 
 mediate a return for his gallantry. 
 
 For after one look at him to make doubly sure of 
 what he meant, Corrie turned on her heel, and with 
 no change of expression in her face, departed, leav 
 ing the astonished musician to gape after her in dis 
 may. Exit Signore Alfuente, thou of the mussed 
 linen and velvet eyes. Buon 1 giorn\ addio! ta-ta, 
 Signore; for these pages shall see you no more. 
 
 Throughout the day, Mrs. Pinchin lay in her huge 
 four-poster breathing stertorously, her face upturned 
 to the ceiling. It was a large face, and one cast in a 
 certain nobility of bigness that became almost Jo 
 vian in the moments of her wrath. But fate now had 
 played queer tricks with Mrs. Pinchin's visage, sport 
 ing with it in unkindly ways; for one side of her 
 mouth, whose nerve cells had been withered in the 
 shock, was stitched up by a muscular contraction 
 into the aspect of a tipsy leer. So hour after hour 
 she lay there, impressively big even in the humility 
 of her downfall ; and hour after hour, with that same 
 crapulous jocundity, her wrecked features simpered 
 at the walls. 
 
 Beside her sat Miss Maria, waiting. Silenced as 
 never before, the weak and pitiable shadow watched 
 
 406
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S WItfK 
 
 there, faithful as a dog beside its master's bier. Her 
 face was screwed now into a point of quiet attention ; 
 she had fixed her eyes on Mrs. Pinchin's face, and, 
 as hour after hour, the noisy breathing wheezed 
 away in the quiet, her vigil never lapsed. Somewhere 
 within call, the young doctor waited; and another 
 had been summoned, an eminent specialist who was 
 to come presently and read the verdict either a 
 reprieve, or to hand Mrs. Pinchin the death warrant. 
 There was the nurse, too a young girl in cap and 
 apron, wearing a cool, blue-striped, muslin gown that 
 rustled quietly. For Mrs. Pinchin, even on the brink 
 where all things end, must have all that life offered 
 to the last. 
 
 Which way now? Shall we say that night came, 
 and that in the night, Mrs. Pinchin's soul went 
 screaming on its way aloft to that great Court 
 of courts where the Judge of judges sits Him at 
 the bar? Or shall we stick to the literal facts? 
 Come! 
 
 No, Mrs. Pinchin did not die. The hours dragged 
 on into the dark, and when the city lights came 
 gleaming through the dusk, winking like Heaven's 
 host of eyes above, her hand moved, scratching the 
 coverlid, as if it beckoned life back again to the 
 wrecked frame that so long had cherished and in 
 dulged it. Night and the creeping tide that waits 
 to bear onward the multitude that lie waiting for the 
 journey. But the night-tide came, and Mrs Pin- 
 chin roused herself, valiant and not yet lost; and 
 when the night-tide came and passed, there she lay, 
 
 407
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 that wraithless effigy of a grin still stitched on her 
 face, but knowing she had dragged back to the 
 shattered cell both precious life and reason. No, 
 indeed; Mrs. Pinchin did not die. 
 
 " Judie ! Judie ! " whispered the gray watcher 
 at the bedside. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin heard her call, and acknowledged it 
 with one fluttering eyelid that winked tipsily in fel 
 lowship with her fixed and tipsy leer. 
 
 During these fated hours, Corrie had become a 
 negligible quantity in Mrs. Pinchin's house. Hour 
 after hour, she too, sat waiting, alone and deeply 
 thoughtful, pondering in a corner of the drawing- 
 room. For what if Mrs. Pinchin died? At every 
 shuffle of feet along the floor above, her heart leaped, 
 hearing in every sound the coming tidings of the 
 end. Day went by, and came nightfall; still she 
 sat there. When the servants offered food, she shook 
 her head, and so the hours passed. The chime in the 
 hall outside boomed unheeded ten ! eleven ! 
 twelve ! midnight ! and Corrie still sat there. 
 
 " You are going to bed soon ? " inquired the young 
 doctor, with an interest and sympathy that even the 
 cloak of his grave manner could not hide. " You can 
 do nothing by sitting up." 
 
 " I suppose not," answered Corrie, weakly. " Will 
 she recover? " 
 
 He answered that it was too soon to say. " But I 
 think so," he added, with unprofessional candor, or, 
 rather, pity. " Mrs. Pinchin is a relative, is n't 
 she? " he inquired. 
 
 408
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S WINK 
 
 " She is ray mother," answered Corrie, and whis 
 pered to herself the question, " Is she?" 
 
 The young physician repressed a start of aston 
 ishment. " I did n't Ah, yes ; I see." But it was 
 extremely improbable that he did see; for to him 
 and to the remainder of the neighborhood, it was in 
 deed news to learn that Mrs. Pinchin's dame de com- 
 pagnie was her offspring. A little disconcerted, he 
 sought to change the conversation. 
 
 " Your mother, Miss Pinchin " oh, good Hea 
 vens ! thought Corrie " your mother must have 
 experienced some grave mental shock? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Corrie, dully ; " a bundle of 
 valuable papers was stolen from her. She had just 
 found it out." 
 
 " Indeed ! and the police have not been here 
 yet ? " Astonishment again peeped out from under 
 his usual air of gravity. Corrie began twisting her 
 fingers together in her lap. 
 
 " No, the police have not been notified. It was 
 not the kind of robbery that would interest them. 
 We know, too, who did it." 
 
 In downright amazement now he gaped at her, dig 
 nity no longer able to struggle with his amazement. 
 Then, for the first time, Corrie realized into what 
 degree of frankness her indifference had led her, and 
 she, too, became a little disconcerted. "I think, 
 if you '11 excuse me, I will go now. You say she has 
 recovered consciousness? " 
 
 Yes; though the motor nerves of one side of 
 her form had been damaged ; but how extensive the 
 
 409
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 paralysis would be, and to what degree it would 
 leave her a cripple, only time could tell. " How long 
 ago, exactly, may I ask? " he inquired, " was the 
 other stroke the one that left her lame ? " 
 
 " I don't know," answered Corrie, and when a 
 few minutes later the young doctor went down the 
 steps, he turned and looked up at Mrs. Pinchin's. 
 " Well, I 'm blowed ! " he muttered to himself, suc 
 cinctly, if not elegantly. 
 
 There was, of course, no question who had robbed 
 Mrs. Pinchin, and had, at the same time, so brought 
 about her downfall. If there were any doubts in the 
 matter, it required only a little reflection to identify 
 the thief. The one incident of that first morning 
 was enough the moment when Corrie hidden be 
 hind the clock had watched the singular Mr. Stan- 
 ton at work on the lock of Mrs. Pinchin's private 
 room. Furthermore, when Uncle Stanwood had dis 
 covered Corrie watching him, he had not been able, 
 even with all his usual coolness, to screw his face 
 into an expression that would argue pleasure at 
 being discovered in his investigation of locked doors 
 and keyholes. Corrie had noted his guilt, and while 
 she knew nothing of the wax that Mrs. Pinchin 
 had subsequently found in the lock, and which Mr. 
 Stanton-Stanwood Geikie had doubtless used to re 
 cord an impression of what the said keyhole looked 
 like, she was still certain that no one else could be 
 the guilty person. 
 
 But what was Uncle Stanwood's interest in the 
 papers? Were they really documents affecting the 
 
 410
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S WINK 
 
 Tollabees? For if one considered Miss Margaret 
 Tollabee's statement that the Tollabee fortune was 
 gone, no papers relating to the estate could be of 
 much value now. And certainly, Uncle Stanwood was 
 not one to perpetrate a theft, unless it were of some 
 value to him ? But what were the papers ? what ? 
 what? 
 
 She remembered then the papers of which Mr. 
 Biggamore had spoken the ones that if once 
 found would clear the memory of Philip Geikie's dead 
 father. Were they the ones ? or 
 
 Said Corrie as she got into bed in the dark: 
 
 " I think my head is going to split. Oh, why did 
 I turn Phil away from the door, to-day? " 
 
 Turn Phil away from the door? Oh, yes! Mag 
 gie had taken the message, not once, but twice. 
 
 "Sure, an' ain't I a-tellin' ye again? 'Twill be 
 more to the likes av a funeral we 're havin' than them 
 parties av a Sunday evening, I dunno. An' she says 
 she '11 be writing ye all about it." 
 
 So Phil had gone away, perplexed and down 
 hearted, and after wiping out her eyes with cold 
 water, Corrie had returned to the drawing-room cor 
 ner. For " Oh ! oh ! " Corrie wept to herself, " if 
 
 I see him again I '11 give in. He '11 make me, and I 
 won't won't won't ! I'm not going to ruin 
 his life I can't ! I won't ! Oh ! " 
 
 But now? "And now I've got to send for 
 him ! " cried Corrie, as she buried her face in the 
 pillows. " I won't! " she snapped, and sat bolt up 
 right staring through the dark. "If I see him, I 
 
 411
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 know what will happen and I won't ! won't ! 
 won't ! " 
 
 Chin in hand, she leaned forward to stare through 
 the dark. 
 
 " Know what I '11 do? " said Corrie to herself, and 
 clenched her teeth. " I '11 send for Mr. Biggamore. 
 That 's what I '11 do," said Corrie, as if she fully 
 meant the threat. " That 's what I '11 do ! " 
 
 Then she buried her head in the pillows again. 
 " My heart can just break, if it wants to," she mut 
 tered ; and outside, in the city, the clocks boomed the 
 hour of one. 
 
 Downstairs in the darkened sick room, the gray 
 shadow still watched, waiting there beside the huge 
 form stretched in the huge four-poster. A finger 
 scratched upon the counterpane. 
 
 "Yes, Judie." 
 
 There was in the gray watcher's solicitude as she 
 leaned over the bed something of a mother's caress 
 ing love as she beads above the cradle of her first 
 born. 
 
 "What is it, Judie, dear?" 
 
 One side of the large mask grinning up from 
 among the pillows twitched with an effort, and a dis 
 jointed mumble came thickly from the crippled lips. 
 
 " Mar-r-rr-ret Toll-1 11-1 yur-rr-r good 
 soul." 
 
 In the dark the waterworks started again, spout 
 ing quietly and unseen. In the dark, also, Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's face went on staring at the ceiling, her mouth 
 
 412
 
 MRS. PINCHIN'S WINK 
 
 wried into the semblance of a tipsy leer. So passed 
 the night away, and then came dawn. Mrs. Pinchin 
 lived ; but just the same, as if she did or did n't, New 
 York awoke, and in West Seventy-fifth Street, the 
 first housemaids began scrubbing off the stoops. 
 
 413
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 Disclosing one way in which irrepressible Nature plays its 
 little jokes. Mrs. Pinchin's plight. The scene in the 
 sick room. The thief revealed. Mrs. Pinchin trifles 
 with the death-dealing thunderbolts. Miss Maria's plea 
 for a confession. Mrs. Pinchin acknowledges her wrong. 
 Showing the curious informality of a woman who strove 
 to preserve a good name. Mr. Stanton proposes but 
 Corrie disposes. Corrie Who ? again. Miss Maria 
 determines to tell. Mr. Biggamore summoned. 
 
 AND so nature plays her little jokes when the 
 time comes to pay up. 
 
 No as it has been said Mrs. Pinchin did not 
 die. Mrs. Pinchin lived, and would continue to live, 
 though life would become for her no such merry ex 
 istence as her past had been. For now, in reparation 
 of those years of slothful and self-indulgent cosset 
 ing, Mrs. Pinchin, if she cared to remain on earth 
 instead of under it, must adapt herself to a course 
 so virtuous that it would not admit even of cakes and 
 ale. Frankly, no more gorging, nibbling, sipping. 
 No more showing off of fine gowns, fine jewels and 
 the like. No more parties. No more social plunges ; 
 none of those big and little things she loved so 
 much. No more of anything, in fact, but a quiet, 
 abstemious, and, to her, utterly obdurate existence 
 hardly worth the trouble of continuing. Kind of a 
 
 414
 
 MISS MARIA DETERMINES 
 
 grisly joke, wasn't it, that Nature played on Mrs. 
 Pinchin ? 
 
 Corrie did not send for Mr. Biggamore at 
 least, not yet. That morning Phil arrived at Mrs. 
 Pinchin's door, and again was turned away. Later 
 came an appealing note, which in turn went un 
 answered. Presently, the telephone jingled fran 
 tically, but with no better luck. 
 
 " If I see him, he '11 make me. If I write to him, 
 I '11 have to. If I telephone him, it will be worse, be 
 cause I never could talk over a telephone anyway, 
 and know what I was saying." Corrie wept timidly 
 and then dried her eyes. " But I won't be able to 
 hold out much longer," said Corrie, " if he keeps on 
 ringing the doorbell." 
 
 In which way, three days passed by under Mrs. 
 Pinchin's roof. 
 
 During these days Corrie saw nothing of Miss 
 Maria, though of what went on in the sick room, she 
 was, hour by hour, informed. Mrs. Pinchin had so 
 far recovered herself as to be able to speak; there 
 were even indications she would regain the use of her 
 arm. Presently it was thought Mrs. Pinchin might 
 be able to walk again, though with a still more ag 
 gravated limp. Corrie listened intently, receiving 
 these bulletins with an impassive calm that again af 
 fected the young doctor curiously. But though Cor 
 rie was aware of his growing wonderment, she was 
 too honest to pretend affection for the stricken 
 woman, even though Mrs. Pinchin were her mother. 
 And is she? thought Corrie miserably. 
 
 415
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 But deep down in the girl's heart there grew a 
 new and solemn feeling for that grim recusant, who, 
 though battled off her feet, still fought from the 
 ground with no cry for quarter. It was a feeling 
 of pity, and mixed with it, a recurring respect. 
 
 On the morning of the third day, and just after 
 the doctor had gone, Miss Maria emerged from her 
 vigil by the bedside. She came down the stairs, her 
 list slippers making no sound on the treads, and glid 
 ing into the drawing-room, silently crooked a finger 
 at the girl. 
 
 Corrie recognized the signal; it was an expected 
 summons, though she had not looked for it so soon. 
 Days before, she had told Mrs. Pinchin that even 
 to the hour of her dying, she would await the ex 
 planation; and while this was not to be a death-bed 
 confessional, Corrie, none the less, knew the moment 
 to be portentous. So at the heels of her silent guide, 
 she climbed the stairs, her mind in a tumult. 
 
 The young nurse was coming out of Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's room, the day's chart in her hand. " Be very 
 quiet with her, won't you, Miss Pinchin ? " she 
 warned ; " and don't stay too long." Then she 
 smiled kindly ; this was the stricken woman's daugh 
 ter, and naturally she must see her. 
 
 " I promise," said Corrie, quietly ; and Miss 
 Maria opened the door. 
 
 But whether the young nurse would have been so 
 placid about it, had she known ; or whether the 
 young doctor would have permitted it, had they 
 asked him, are two questions that are, perhaps, best 
 
 416
 
 MISS MARIA DETERMINES 
 
 answered by themselves. There on the pillows lay 
 the heavy-tortured face, staring up at the ceiling 
 with that same mirthless effigy of a grin, and there 
 was the one opened eye that leered at Corrie with 
 the semblance of a wink. 
 
 Her lips moved and she spoke. These pages shall 
 make no effort to mimic faithfully, nor to simulate 
 in any way, the thick-tongued effort of her speech; 
 for it was as painful in its way, and as sorry as the 
 maimed lips that uttered it. Mrs. Pinchin spoke, and 
 that is quite enough. She turned her head, coiled 
 with its coarse and dark ropey braids, and mutely 
 signaled the girl to bend closer. On the four-poster's 
 other side was Miss Maria, waiting and still 
 watching. 
 
 " Girl, was it you that broke into my room below? " 
 
 Corrie started in astonishment; this was hardly 
 what she had expected. " No, Mrs. Pinchin," she 
 answered, and in the heat of the moment, it was on 
 the tip of her tongue to say she might be Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's daughter, but still she was not a thief. " No," 
 said Corrie ; " I did n't. Need I tell you that? " 
 
 " There ! " exclaimed Miss Maria, as if empha 
 sizing 7 told you so. 
 
 "You haven't been in there? And you haven't 
 seen the papers? And you don't know who took 
 them? " Mrs. Pinchin mumbled the three questions, 
 and closed her one able eye, breathing softly while 
 she waited. 
 
 " I have n't seen them," answered Corrie, quietly ; 
 " but I think I know who took them." 
 27 417
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 A long pause; Mrs. Pinchin's breast heaved with 
 a deep inspiration. " Who ? " she queried, and the 
 one word was breathed forth like a choking sigh. 
 
 " Stanwood Geikie Mr. Stanton." 
 
 " Oh! " cried Miss Maria, unprepared to hear his 
 name, the cry wrung out of her willy nilly. She half 
 arose from her chair. 
 
 They had warned Mrs. Pinchin already that any 
 stress of excitement would be fatal. But Mrs. Pin- 
 chin lay here now, trifling with the thunderbolts. 
 Grim Mrs. Pinchin able and courageous ! Te mor- 
 ibundi salutamus! 
 
 " Oh ! " gasped Miss Maria. 
 
 A gnarled finger scratched irritably on the cover 
 lid. Miss Maria sat down. 
 
 " Who ? " inquired Mrs. Pinchin, after a pause. 
 
 Corrie repeated the name; it seemed convincing 
 enough; and Mrs. Pinchin again breathed deeply. 
 " Humh-h ! " she grunted. 
 
 " Judie is n't that enough? You know they 
 told you you must be very quiet. I would n't " 
 
 Again the thick finger scratched irritably on the 
 counterpane. Mrs. Pinchin was reserving both her 
 breath and herself for a further effort. 
 
 " He has n't shown you what he stole? You don't 
 know anything about it.? " she still persisted. 
 
 Corrie breathed a little desperate sigh of her own. 
 Nothing, it seemed, was there in this world to break 
 down the implacable resolve of that grim and unre 
 lenting spirit not even the imminence of death, or 
 its escape from it. 
 
 418
 
 MISS MARIA DETERMINES 
 
 " Mrs. Pinchin no! But won't you answer a 
 question of mine? Won't you please tell me whether 
 you are really my mother? I have been told so, but 
 you have not admitted it yet. I think I 'd rather 
 know the truth now, whatever it is, than to go on in 
 miserable doubt. Please," said Corrie, gently; 
 " won't you please tell me? " 
 
 Miss Maria got up and stood by the bed. " Ah ! 
 Judie now! " she groaned, and held out both her 
 hands in appeal. " Think how I 've begged for 
 years ! " 
 
 The finger scratched once on the covering, and 
 paused. Mrs. Pinchin's eye rolled around, and then 
 with an effort, she moved her head on the pillows. 
 Miss Maria's arms were thrust out a little further, 
 and there was a suggestion that Miss Maria had 
 plans of falling on her knees. Angrily, once again, 
 the finger scratched its displeasure; but Mrs. Pin- 
 chin's eye closed, and she seemed to muse. 
 
 A full minute passed, the clock on Mrs. Pinchin's 
 mantel ticking swiftly, as if with a galloping ur 
 gency of haste. But Mrs. Pinchin took her time. 
 Once her eye opened, looked at Corrie and closed 
 again. Afterward, the thick eyelid lifted wide enough 
 for a peep at Miss Maria. Mrs. Pinchin mused a 
 little more. 
 
 " Yes ; I guess so," she said, as if in answer to a 
 question; and then she looked quietly in Corrie's 
 face. Miss Maria clasped her hands together, and 
 the waterworks got ready. 
 
 "I'm your mother," said Mrs. Pinchin, slowly; 
 419
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " I will not deny it now. Yes," said Mrs. Pin- 
 chin, and slowly closed her eye. " I 'm your 
 mother!" 
 
 " Oh, my God," said Miss Maria, with great sim 
 plicity; and buried her face in her hands. 
 
 Corrie, dazed and overwhelmed, stared at her as 
 if she could not believe: yet after all, what else was 
 there to do ? There was no reason to doubt it now ; 
 Mrs. Pinchin had made her confession, and why at 
 this extremity should she tell anything but the truth ? 
 Corrie pressed both hands to her cheeks, and looked 
 down at the woman lying on the bed. 
 
 " Mother ! then how could you have treated me 
 so? Mother, how could you do it? " 
 
 " Because " rumbled Mrs. Pinchin, in a weak, 
 irresolute voice; and then she paused. Her eye had 
 closed, and the mouth stitched up into its wried trav 
 esty of mirth, tried to work its lips together. After 
 ward, her throat, tinted to the hue of stained ivory, 
 rippled with a little spasmodic reflex of swallowing, 
 and when she spoke again, it was in a voice that made 
 no concealment of its sincerity and anguish. 
 
 " Because, I 'd tried to keep it from you. I could 
 not let you know. I tried to hide the truth, and not 
 to let you understand. I did n't know what might 
 happen if you found out. I couldn't let you." 
 
 " But mother ; why were you so unkind and un 
 feeling and cruel ? Why were n't you j ust a little 
 kind ? And why did n't you let me know, 
 mother? I was your own child and I would have 
 understood. Don't you see that I could have loved 
 
 420
 
 MISS MARIA DETERMINES 
 
 you, then, and thought of you, as a child should 
 think of its mother? But you wouldn't let me, and 
 now it 's all too late though I '11 try to love you. 
 You are my mother but why Oh ! how could you 
 treat me so mother? " 
 
 " Because - ' said Mrs. Pinchin, and licked her 
 lips. " Because," she said again and rolled her eye 
 around. " Why, because I was too because I I 
 had to think of my virtue! " 
 
 " Oh my God ! " said Miss Maria, with complete 
 ness, and rose unsteadily to her feet. 
 
 " I remembered my shame," croaked Mrs. Pinchin, 
 and said no more. 
 
 It was the nurse who brought the situation to a 
 close. Whether by chance, or through some instinct 
 of her profession that warned of what was going on, 
 she popped in her head at the door just as Mrs. 
 Pinchin had made her declaration. Instantly, the 
 quick eye told what was wrong, and with no further 
 ado, the nurse ordered both Corrie and Miss Maria 
 from the room, and set to work on her patient. 
 
 But even then Mrs. Pinchin was not to die. Once 
 again, she had played with the thunderbolts, and 
 juggled them at will; unscathed, she still lived, in 
 violate. 
 
 Poor Corrie ! After a half -hour at it, she sat up 
 on her bed, looked feverishly across at the dressing- 
 glass, and then got up and bathed her eyes in cold 
 water. Eau de cologne might have done better, as 
 it is the usual remedy prescribed for young heroines 
 
 421
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 in such extremities ; but Corrie did n't own any and 
 it 's doubtful whether she would have used it if she 
 had. Still cold water does pretty well, after all; 
 and when an hour later she came down the stairs, 
 she was more or less restored, that is, in color, if 
 not in spirits. 
 
 For now, after all the ups and downs of hope, life 
 had established itself for her in a rut so desperately 
 hopeless that it was hardly worth the anguish of 
 traveling such a road. It was a road that led no 
 where except back to the starting point. Who 
 walked upon it, though innocent of the fault that set 
 them there, journeyed alone, shunned and desolate. 
 Corrie owned no philosophy to help look on the 
 brighter side. There was no brighter side, of course ; 
 and she sat down in a corner of the drawing-room 
 and stared at the pattern of the carpet. 
 
 It was a body Brussels carpet, a florid, extraordi 
 nary weave, selected according to Mrs. Pinchin's 
 curious taste. On a field maroon bloomed exotically, 
 incredibly exotic roses of a hue and size unimagin 
 able. Its border was an arrangement of pale green 
 daisies set between lines of magenta; and the lines, 
 gathering in a complicated scroll work at the corners, 
 swept along beside the wainscot, loudly crying at 
 tention from the eye. Unconsciously, one's eye fol 
 lowed the track around the room, released from its 
 thrall only when a piece of furniture broke in on the 
 continuity of that rowdy strip. So Corrie, poring 
 on the carpet, began to follow its border line with a 
 moody thoughtfulness. 
 
 422
 
 MISS MARIA DETERMINES 
 
 She did not hear the key clicking in the door out 
 side. Nor was she aware afterwards of the door 
 slowly opening, and then, as slyly closing. Her 
 glance fixed subconsciously on the scrollwork in the 
 nearest corner, spun dizzily among its arabesques 
 and then darted down the room to the next corner, 
 where it paused long enough to disentangle itself 
 from the curlycues. Subsequently, it skipped along 
 down the wainscot toward the door, dodging on the 
 way a fat, gilt chair; a stand with brass legs and 
 claw feet ; and an enameled milking stool decorated 
 with a garter of pink ribbon; and arriving at the 
 portieres, came to a full stop of astonishment at the 
 sight of a pair of shoes. 
 
 They were men's shoes, and in them was a man. 
 
 " Ah, my dear young girl," said Mr. Stanton, 
 pushing aside the hangings ; " how very fortunate 
 to find you here alone." 
 
 She started up, her lips parted, her hand flying 
 to her breast. Speechless, Corrie looked at him, 
 and had Uncle Stanwood not turned at the mo 
 ment to draw the portieres a little closer, he would 
 have seen the look of repugnance rising in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " It is charming to see you again, my dear," he 
 said, strolling toward her, one hand elegantly strok 
 ing a whisker tip; "most pleasant, particularly 
 when I came here for that very purpose. Won't 
 you sit down again? " 
 
 Corrie managed to speak. "What do you wish, 
 Mr. Stanton? " she asked in a voice that was gentle, 
 
 423
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 because she had not been able to raise it above a 
 whisper. " Why do you come here now? " 
 
 " To see you, my dear. A very good reason, too, 
 I should say." Mr. Stanton smiled pleasantly, and 
 drew up a chair. " You will be seated, won't you ? " 
 He glanced smilingly toward the door. " We are 
 alone, and there is something I have to say." 
 
 Again with an effort, Corrie spoke. " What is it 
 you wish, Mr. Geikie? " 
 
 " Ah ! my name yes, of course." He again 
 motioned to the chair. " But I beg you to sit 
 down." 
 
 Because Corrie's knees seemed too weak to sus 
 tain her, she sat or rather fell upon a chair. 
 
 " Yes Geikie, of course. My dear, there were 
 many reasons why it was necessary to obscure my 
 real identity under the other name. 
 
 " In the first place, one of my position could not 
 afford to mix on terms of equality with the persons 
 I have met here. Rather singular acquaintances 
 Mrs. Pinchin has don't you think so? But amus 
 ing amusing ! You cannot fancy how much sport 
 I have had in watching them at their social antics." 
 Corrie fixed her eyes on him intently, as he threw 
 back his head to laugh lightly. " You see," he con 
 tinued, " I came here to watch them, they were 
 so thoroughly entertaining; though, of course, I 
 could n't permit persons like that to know me. 
 A man in my position could n't afford it. No, 
 indeed; it would have declassed me among my 
 friends." 
 
 424
 
 MISS MARIA DETERMINES 
 
 Friends ? thought Corrie ; former friends, per 
 haps, by whom he was already too well known to 
 suffer any further disparagement. Mr. Stanton 
 beamed anew, as he again began tugging at his 
 whisker tip. 
 
 " However, my dear, it was not on the topic of 
 Mrs. Pinchin's queer acquaintances that I came to 
 see you. No, it was on a matter much more impor 
 tant to yourself. About you, in fact," said Uncle 
 Stanwood, and hitched his chair a little closer. 
 
 " My dear girl," he murmured abruptly, " I have 
 come to make a reparation. Ah, don't think I 
 have n't seen what has been going on in this house. 
 It has been cruel and shameful a young girl, 
 sweet and unprotected and then to be treated so. 
 Oh, I think it abominable, shameful! and I won 
 der that Mrs. Pinchin has allowed it." 
 
 The girl felt her heart leap, drum wildly in her 
 breast, and then subside, leaving the color drawn 
 from her face. " Mr. Stanton, did you come here 
 to tell me this?" she asked, in a fluttering voice. 
 " Do you think I '11 listen to you to you, mocking 
 me like that, when I know what part you have had 
 in it? Stand aside and let me pass. You! " 
 
 " I? " interrupted Mr. Stanton. " I had nothing 
 to do with it. On the contrary, I did my best to 
 prevent it." 
 
 Corrie fell back in her chair, her eyes distended. 
 What did he mean? " You had nothing to do with 
 it? " she cried, and felt her heart leap again. " Do 
 
 you give me your word of honor " She laughed 
 
 425
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 wildly. What would a creature like this scamp of a 
 father know of a thing like honor. " Do you mean to 
 tell me that you are not the one responsible? Who 
 was, then ? " she cried scornfully ; " since you seem 
 to know." 
 
 Uncle Stanwood eyed her in some astonishment. 
 " My dear girl ! I refer to my scoundrelly young 
 nephew, and the shameful way he has treated you. 
 This is what I mean. I fail to see how I could 
 have prevented it," observed Mr. Stanton, blandly ; 
 " though I really tried I really did. You saw how 
 the young whelp tried to assault me when he found I 
 had learned of his villainy." 
 
 Corrie stilled an hysterical desire to laugh and an 
 equally wild impulse to throw back her head and 
 scream. Uncle Stanwood crossed his knees, and with 
 a hand gracefully clutching one lapel of his coat 
 and the other idly combing out his flowing whisker, 
 leaned back pleasantly and smiled. But Uncle Stan- 
 wood smiled often he was always smiling ; and 
 never before had the girl felt so complete and de 
 grading a horror for the man as that which now 
 began to steal upon her. 
 
 " What is it that you mean, Mr. Stanton Mr. 
 Geikie ? " she corrected herself. " Why have you 
 come here to see me ? " 
 
 " Why ? oh, that is a very simple matter to tell 
 you. My dear young girl, I come here to pay you 
 the very highest courtesy in my power." He raised 
 his hand to still her. " No wait before you say 
 anything. I must fully explain myself." Drawing 
 
 426
 
 MISS MARIA DETERMINES 
 
 his chair even a little nearer, Mr. Stanton leaned to 
 ward her ; and at the look on his face, the girl shrank 
 away. " Dear girl," said Mr. Stanton, softly, " I 
 know how that young scoundrel has forced himself 
 on you, only in the end to show himself in his true 
 colors. I know all about it, since Mrs. Pinchin has 
 told me. But I do not wish you to think all the men 
 of his family are like him. No, I should like you to 
 believe one, at least, is honorable, whatever you think 
 of the others. Now this young blackguard has 
 thrown you over; he has led you on, only to jilt you, 
 as I have been informed, and, therefore, I wish to 
 make amends. Besides, I have seen that I am not ut- 
 .terly distasteful to you." He glanced at her as if 
 further to assure himself so. " I recall, you know," 
 said Mr. Stanton, affectionately, " your efforts to 
 rescue me from that young cub, Sunday night, when, 
 'pon my soul, I believe he was bent on murdering me. 
 Yes." There he paused, and again looked swiftly at 
 the girl. " Oh, come ! " exclaimed Mr. Stanton, ab 
 ruptly, " what 's the use of my beating around the 
 bush? You see what I 'm driving at. The long and 
 short of it is that I offer you a name and home, my 
 girl, something you 've never had before. Why, 
 a girl in your fix ought to jump at the chance. 
 Come ! is it a go ? " 
 
 Corrie got to her feet, though how, she was not 
 quite sure. Her heart had begun its leaping again, 
 and in her soul was an aversion so complete and ter 
 rible that she could only stare at him bewitched. 
 Then a hysterical, senseless ripple of laughter burst 
 
 427
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 from her lips. " To go with you a home ! and 
 a name ! " 
 
 " Oh, yes," assured Mr. Stanton, benevolently ; 
 " I offer marriage." 
 
 Corrie pushed the chair between them and meas 
 ured the distance to the door. " Then, Mr. Stan- 
 wood Geikie," she said with a slow and cutting 
 distinctness, " you are not my father after all. 
 Thank God, I am saved that shame. I see that you 
 are nothing but a common thief and cheat." 
 
 And before his hand could reach her, she was gone, 
 racing up the stairs, her heart in despite its terror 
 and aversion singing a wild pagan of joy, in the over 
 whelming relief of discovery. For she was free 
 now ! Free, she sang ! They could not lie to her and 
 trick her any more. Uncle Stanwood was not her 
 father. Mrs. Pinchin was not her mother. She was 
 sure of it as sure as the sun was in the sky. As 
 sure as she lived and breathed and knew. Free! 
 yes ! Free again, and once more Corrie Robinson. 
 She was Corrie Who? if you like, and to add to 
 that, Corrie What? if you choose. But the old 
 certainty of doubt hung above her now like a glori 
 ous benediction. Not her child. Nor his child! 
 And in the joy of the discovery, what else could 
 matter ? 
 
 No, what else? thought Corrie, panting as she 
 leaned against her door and locked it. " I must try 
 to think," she said weakly, putting a hand to her 
 brow ; " I must try to think it out." Presently, she 
 slipped down to the floor, and sat there, her back 
 
 428
 
 " You see what I 'm driving at. The long and short of it 
 is that I offer you a name and home, my girl, some 
 thing you 've never had before."
 
 MISS MARIA DETERMINES 
 
 against the panels. " I can't think, of course. No 
 one could. But what 's the use of thinking, anyway ? 
 I might just as well know." 
 
 Rising to her feet, Corrie cautiously opened the 
 door and listened. Then she walked to the stairs and 
 peeped. No one was in sight; the house lay still. 
 After a moment's reflection, she walked down to the 
 floor below, and leaned over the balusters. 
 
 " Maggie ! Oh, Maggie ! " called Corrie, in a mod 
 ulated voice. Maggie was in the dining room. " Yes, 
 ma'am ! " 
 
 " Maggie, see whether there is any one in the draw 
 ing-room." Maggie favored her with a blank stare, 
 and then with her head tipped over inquiringly, 
 went and looked. 
 
 " Never a one, ma'am," she reported concisely. 
 
 " Are you sure ? " 
 
 " And I am that ! Did n't I take the full av me 
 eyes to every corner? But maybe was you expecting 
 somewan, y 'd better be lookin' yerself. Is it the 
 young man, I dunno ? " 
 
 " If he calls," reph'ed Corrie, majestically, " you 
 may say that I am home to him." 
 
 Maggis returned to her work. "Ow! glory be! 
 an* what d' ye think av that ! " 
 
 But Corrie heard no echo of this concrete observa 
 tion. She had already disappeared into the bedroom 
 at her left. 
 
 " Miss Maria," said Corrie, closing the door be 
 hind her, " I wish to speak to you." 
 
 Inasmuch as Corrie had dispensed with the for-
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 mality of knocking, Miss Maria turned around with 
 a startled exclamation. 
 
 " Miss Maria," said Corrie, her hands clenched 
 together at her sides, " Mr. Stanton I mean Mr. 
 Stanwood Geikie, was here a few minutes ago. I 
 talked to him." 
 
 Perhaps a half minute went by ; Corrie waited 
 patiently. She saw first a deeper gray steal into 
 Miss Maria's gray features ; then she saw her catch 
 her breath. Afterwards Miss Maria blinked; wet 
 her thin lips, and put a hand to her lean, slender 
 
 throat. " Then " The word came in a gagging 
 
 whisper ; Miss Maria tried again. " Then he told 
 you everything? " she blurted out, and in her voice 
 there was neither regret nor terror, but a great and 
 convulsing relief. Somehow, she scrambled to her 
 feet, and stood clinging to the chair back. " It 
 would be like him," she said simply, and wet her lips 
 again. " He had told you, then? " 
 
 " No, Miss Maria. He only asked me to marry 
 him." 
 
 " He asked you you, you say ! to marry him ? 
 - Oh ! ! ! " 
 
 But no rank of slender types standing at attention 
 could give to the words the force Miss Maria put into 
 them. " He asked you to that man ! ! ! " An 
 other little row of slim soldiers firing another volley. 
 " Oh, this is too much. I will not stand it any longer ! 
 And oh, merciful God ! to think what I have suf 
 fered for him. Let me by," said Miss Maria, and 
 struggled toward the door. 
 
 430
 
 MISS MARIA DETERMINES 
 
 " No ! wait a moment, Miss Maria." Corrie 
 leaned against the door, and clenched her hands a 
 little tighter. " You cannot trick and befuddle me 
 any more. I 've stood it all my life, and now you 've 
 got to tell me. If I go to Mrs. Pinchin with this, 
 you know what will happen to her. But Miss Maria, 
 it 's killing me, too. And why should I think of her 
 when she has never shown me anything but cruelty? 
 Will you tell me now? " asked Corrie, quietly, but 
 determinedly. 
 
 Miss Maria made one ineffectual effort to get by 
 her. "Is Mrs. Pinchin my mother?" demanded 
 Corrie, a hand outstretched. 
 
 ** No," said Miss Maria, desperately. 
 
 " And Stanwood Geikie is n't my father? " 
 
 " No ! Oh, my God, no ! " Miss Maria clasped 
 her hands together in appeal. " Let me out now, 
 won't you? As He is my judge, I swear I tell you 
 the truth ! " 
 
 " Who am I then? I think you know." 
 
 Miss Maria's eyes went from side to side, like a rat 
 trying to escape. 
 
 " Give me a little time. Yes, I know. But give 
 me a little time, won't you? just an hour will do. 
 I can't tell you like this. Give me an hour. Don't 
 you see I 've got to get my wits back? I wish to tell 
 you. Oh, I do ! Don't be so cruel to me. Be a little 
 kind, Corrie my own little girl is dead! That poor, 
 poor little girl I took you to see. She 's dead, and 
 they buried her all alone. She 's in her grave, Corrie 
 think of that ! and my sister would n't let me go 
 
 431
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 and see her buried. Won't you have a little mercy? 
 Ah, don't be so cruel, Corrie. I 've been a little kind 
 to you not always cruel and wicked. They buried 
 her all alone, Corrie. I could n't go because Judie 
 would n't let me. She said she 'd die of fear if I 
 left her. Give me just an hour now, won't you 
 please? " 
 
 Then Corrie realized. The veil was torn away 
 that cheating swindling fabric of lies and she 
 knew. " How could you do it, Miss Maria? " asked 
 Corrie, plaintively. She leaned over the frail, quiver 
 ing, unlovely, weeping creature, and put an arm 
 around her. " How could you do it ? poor, wicked, 
 foolish woman ! How could you ? " 
 
 Miss Maria shook against her shoulder for a 
 moment, and then freed herself. " Send for Mr. 
 Biggamore," she gasped, and fled through the 
 door. 
 
 432
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 Depicting the arrival of the envoy extraordinary at Mrs. 
 Pinchin's stronghold. How Phil was told to go to the 
 deuce. Miss Maria reveals herself. The story of 
 Margaret Tollabee and an inventory of her deceits. 
 Randolph Tollabee' s stepsisters, and the rascally Stanwood 
 Geikie. How Miss Maria got down on her knees. 
 The interrupted elopement. Judie's allowance, and 
 what happened when it was stopped. How Miss Mar 
 garet's prayers were answered. 
 
 T T was an hour later, when Mr. Biggamore, hurry- 
 ing to the urgency of the summons, came panting 
 up the steps. The little gentleman's cheeks were 
 puffed out with excitement, and after pushing the 
 bell button, not once, but twice, and then, after re 
 flection, a third time, he fished for his handkerchief 
 and wrung forth such a trumpet blast as to fill all 
 Seventy-fifth Street with its clarion echoes. What ho, 
 within there! And instantly, within there, Mrs. 
 Pinchin's figurative castle awoke with the figurative 
 unbarring of the grated gates and an equally figur 
 ative raising of the portcullis, whereupon the still 
 bugling envoy extraordinary pranced inside the 
 stronghold. 
 
 " Well, young lady ! And now, what 's up ? " in 
 quired Mr. Biggamore, concisely, if not formally. 
 
 Corrie closed the door, and speechlessly waved him 
 into the drawing-room. 
 
 28 433
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Furthermore," said Mr. Biggamore, severely, 
 making at the same time a painful effort to recover 
 both his composure and his breath, " what have you 
 been doing to that young nephew of mine, these 
 last few days ? " 
 
 Corrie nervously twisted her fingers together. 
 " I don't know, Mr. Biggamore. Why ? " 
 
 The little gentleman paused long enough to awake 
 the echoes with another fanfare. " That is for you 
 to tell me ! " he retorted, after blowing out his cheeks. 
 " Just now I meet him skulking at the corner, and 
 when I inquire what he is doing there, he mumbles an 
 unintelligible reply, and darts off down the street. I 
 believe," said Mr. Biggamore, indignantly, " that 
 he told me to go to the deuce. I decline to go to the 
 deuce. I will go there for no one, and much less for 
 him. He may go to the dickens ! " exclaimed Mr. 
 Biggamore ; and then, " I beg your pardon." 
 
 But after tugging his forelock long enough to re 
 gain himself, Mr. Biggamore left off, and peered at 
 her. " What 's up? happened, I mean." 
 
 " I am going to marry Phil ! " said Corrie, blush 
 ing frightfully. " Yes that is, I think so if 
 he '11 still have me." 
 
 Mr. Biggamore sat down suddenly and put his 
 hands on his knees. " I beg your pardon. You 
 said ?" 
 
 " If I 'm who I think I am," added Corrie, 
 quietly. 
 
 " But you 're Mrs. Pinchin's daughter." By an 
 extremely narrow margin, Mr. Biggamore averted an 
 
 434
 
 THE STORY OF MARGARET TOLLABEE 
 
 explosion. Great credit here, for the little gentle 
 man's heroism; he might blow up subsequently, 
 but he was still holding the prow against the bank. 
 
 "No I am not ! " said Corrie. Her chubby vis 
 a-vis was still manfully containing himself long 
 enough for the allegorical women and children to get 
 ashore. " No and I 'm not in the least well, 
 not related to Stanwood Geikie, you know. Miss 
 Maria has said so." 
 
 " Miss Maria? Now who in the I beg your par 
 don. Oh, yes ; I 'd forgotten there was another 
 female mixed up in this." 
 
 " And you still don't know who she is ? " inquired 
 Corrie. There a footfall sounded in the hall; Miss 
 Maria had heard the doorbell; and if one considers 
 what lay on Miss Maria's mind and soul, she must 
 have arisen and come to that summons like the con 
 demned, who, on the fated dawn, hears the prison bell 
 begin to toll. With her eyes set before her, she 
 trudged along the hall, in her hands a bundle of pa 
 pers that she held up like a crucifix ; and parting the 
 hangings at the door, she marched straight across the 
 room to Mr. Biggamore. There she paused, and 
 looked at him, about as Lady Jane Grey must have 
 looked at the headsman when she took her place at 
 the block. 
 
 " This is Miss Maria," said Corrie, with a little 
 frown of compassion. 
 
 But there, like Jim Bludso or Jim Bludso's 
 boat Mr. Biggamore gave up. Or, rather, he 
 
 blew up. 
 
 435
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Why, it 's Margaret Tollabee ! " he exploded, 
 and stood with his mouth agape. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Biggamore. And now that you have 
 driven us into a corner, it 's time to end the farce." 
 Miss Maria perched herself sideways on the edge of 
 a chair, and blinked at him almost stolidly. 
 
 " But your hair her hair ! " cried Mr. Bigga 
 more, dumbfoundedly ; " it was snow white. I looked 
 at it particularly." 
 
 " A wig," answered Miss Maria, explicitly, in a 
 small, expressionless voice. " I 've got it put away 
 in a bandbox." 
 
 Then, as if by inspiration, Corrie recalled the 
 bandbox that Mrs. Pinchin had brought home with 
 her, and which she had so jealously guarded from 
 Miss Freedlark's gaily prying curiosity. 
 
 " Did she go and buy it ? Mrs. Pinchin made you 
 put it on?" 
 
 " Yes ; Judie thought I 'd better wear one," 
 answered Miss Maria, frankly. " I was a fool." 
 Then she sighed. " She asked me to use an ear 
 trumpet, too, because you 'd have to speak up louder, 
 Mr. Biggamore, and she wanted to hear what you 'd 
 say. She was behind the folding door." Miss Maria 
 drew a deep breath through her nose. " But I 
 would n't act a lie like that. The wig was as far 
 as I 'd go." 
 
 Mr. Biggamore clung to his knee-caps, as if the 
 solid ground were about to swim out from under, 
 and leave him hanging in space. 
 
 " You see here ! " he blurted out, indignantly ; 
 436
 
 THE STORY OF MARGARET TOLLABEE 
 
 " what 'd you two women mean like that ! by 
 
 making a fool of me? " 
 
 Miss Maria meekly dropped her eyes. She played 
 with her fingers for a moment, and then suddenly 
 looked up. In the moment, her face had squared it 
 self with determination, and she thrust out her lower 
 lip. 
 
 " Listen ! " said Miss Maria, whom one must still 
 so term, though she was really Margaret Tollabee; 
 " now listen to me ! " she said harshly. " I 'm willing 
 to tell everything ; but first of all, I 'm going to 
 make a bargain." She swung around in her chair 
 until she faced Corrie. " Will you promise, if I tell 
 will you promise on your sacred word of honor, 
 you won't do anything to Judie not sue us, or do 
 anything like that ? " 
 
 Mr. Biggamore leaped excitedly to his feet. " Re 
 fuse ! Don't you do it ! It 's outrageous ! There 
 may be the money, too. How do we know who 's got 
 it?" 
 
 Miss Maria turned to him scornfully. " Is this a 
 time to talk of money? Do you suppose this girl 
 thinks of money? Ah! how I hate the sound of 
 it ! money? when I 'm going to tell her who she is? 
 We can account for every penny of it, and I '11 sur 
 prise you too, when I come to that. Money ! Faugh ! 
 Is it a promise? " 
 
 " If you '11 say who I am," answered Corrie, pite- 
 ously, " I '11 promise anything. Oh, Miss Maria, I 
 won't harm you or Mrs. Pinchin, no matter what 
 you 've done." 
 
 437
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Come ! " growled Mr. Biggamore, wrathfully ; 
 " is this girl Mrs. Pinchin's daughter, or " 
 
 " Lies," answered Miss Maria, grinning outrage 
 ously, but without mirth. 
 
 " or Stanwood Geikie's ? " exploded Mr. Big- 
 gamore. 
 
 " Lies all lies," answered Miss Maria, and 
 fanned herself nervously with her bundle of papers. 
 " Everything was lies. I have n't drawn a truthful 
 breath for nearly fifteen years. I 've lied to her 
 and I 've lied to you and I 've lied to the world. I 've 
 lied to God so that I have n't dared to stick my nose 
 inside a church from the time I first began to lie." 
 She stopped and caught her breath, and then went 
 on again until she was breathless. " Mrs. Pinchin 
 was a lie. I was a lie. I turned my own poor little 
 crippled baby into a lie. Now she 's dead, in punish 
 ment of me, and even when they buried her alone, I 
 had to lie and say she was n't mine. Oh, in His name, 
 what lies ! " gasped Miss Maria, her mouth opening 
 in a sob; and thus having finished the catalogue of 
 her deceits, Miss Maria sat up, with the waterworks 
 playing their accompaniment, and turned around to 
 Corrie. 
 
 "You're Dorothy Tollabee," she said; "Ran 
 dolph Tollabee's daughter." 
 
 And so, for the first time, to the accompaniment of 
 tears flying like rain on a hill, the story of the absurd 
 and ridiculous cheat was told. 
 
 At the best, it had been only a clumsy farce, a kind 
 438
 
 THE STORY OF MARGARET TOLLABEE 
 
 of scherzo jingling in syncopated measure to the de 
 risive jig-step of fate. From the beginning, the two 
 women must have foreseen its disastrous outcome, 
 Miss Maria, year after year, begging to have done 
 with it, and half beside herself with terror and with 
 shame; Mrs. Pinchin, grim and implacably deter 
 mined, still hanging on and resolved in the face of 
 discovery indeed, even in the face of death ! to 
 cling desperately to the booty and to surrender 
 nothing till her last rampart was stormed. 
 
 For it was her greed, and only that, which had been 
 at the bottom of it greed and a rapacious ava 
 rice. Sipping, tasting, guzzling, gorging, and what 
 not, she had sworn, in fact, that she would tempt 
 jail before she would give up her comforts ; and year 
 by year, still clinging to them, she had so fattened 
 herself in self-indulgence that the ego in her cosmos 
 obscured everything else in sight. Pity and compas 
 sion were gone ; in their place she felt only the hatred 
 we breed against those we have injured; and center 
 ing every thought in herself, Mrs. Pinchin, in time, 
 had developed the traits that, had she been a man, 
 would have made her either a historical rascal, or, on 
 the other hand, a multi-millionaire. Indeed, it had 
 gone so far that Miss Maria was frightened by it, 
 and it is a question, if Corrie had not found out for 
 herself, whether she would not, in her fear of some 
 thing worse, have come forward and confessed the 
 secret. 
 
 But Miss Maria, even though owning up to the 
 crime, was her sister's able protestant. " I don't say 
 
 439
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 she was right no, Judie was pretty cruel. But 
 then she had an excuse. Randolph had told us he 'd 
 see we had all the money we needed ; that was after 
 our mother died, his stepmother, you know and he 
 promised Judie, too, he 'd help her get on socially. 
 Her head was always filled with ideas about getting 
 up in the world and giving grand parties and becom 
 ing a great lady. Yes ! and oh ! can't you see 
 what it 's come to now? It was that fever of hers to 
 shine that brought us to the first step in our down 
 fall. Judie said she 'd have to know French, if she 
 was going to get on with the best people! " The 
 words came forth from between her teeth, uttered 
 savagely and with an explosive vehemence. " The 
 best people ! Faugh ! She 'd let them walk over her, 
 if she could only get near enough to them and 
 they 'd trample on her, too, I think ! But, anyway, 
 Judie had to learn French, so she hired that 
 young girl, Leonie Giraud your mother, you un 
 derstand," said Miss Maria, without looking at Cor- 
 rie, and still staring at the floor. " And about that 
 time, too," she continued, gritting her teeth, " Ran 
 dolph brought Stanwood Geikie to our home." 
 
 The papers in her hand crumpled together, at 
 this stage, with the force of Miss Maria's convulsive 
 grip on them. " Yes he brought that man there, 
 and Judie set her cap at him." 
 
 "Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Biggamore, astonished. 
 
 " Oh, yes and so did I, for that matter," droned 
 Miss Maria, listlessly. 
 
 For so, indeed, it had been. Stanwood Geikie had 
 440
 
 THE STORY OF MARGARET TOLLABEE 
 
 seen the interest the two women evinced in him, and 
 forthwith he had set out to profit by it. Tollabee 
 was in frail health; he might not live long; and 
 Stanwood Geikie had already been told by him that 
 in event of his death, his money would go to his step 
 sisters. It is true, of course, that Tollabee had al 
 ways regretted his father's second marriage; but 
 the step-mother had been kind to him ; he had grown 
 up amiably with the girls, and while they were much 
 older than he, the gentle, affectionate, shy, and gen 
 erous man had come in time to be fond of them. 
 
 It was at this time that vague whispers against 
 Stanwood Geikie had begun to spread. His name 
 among women was known; his fortune had been 
 squandered in ways by which no gentleman may spend 
 his money and still remain gentle; and though he 
 was grudgingly tolerated at his clubs, there were 
 many other doors in New York already closed against 
 him. So in Randolph Tollabee's sisters, the cal 
 culating Mr. Geikie, then well on toward forty, had 
 seen a way to recoup himself, to get a little ready 
 money in hand, and perhaps once more to set himself 
 on his feet. In so many words, he decided he would 
 marry one of the two which one, it did n't matter 
 in the least. 
 
 " I was a good looking girl then Oh, you 
 need n't stare ! " said Miss Maria, darting a look at 
 Mr. Biggamore, " and Judie, too. She was big and 
 handsome ; a fine, tall woman with snappy eyes. But 
 Judie was getting on. She 'd had chances, only Judie 
 got it into her head she 'd marry only a gentleman. 
 
 441
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 Faugh ! and if a man of our own class asked 
 her there was more than one, too Judie 'd only 
 sneer at him. So, after a while, all the men we 'd 
 known kept away, and then this Stanwood Geikie 
 
 came Oh, well, you know what happened after 
 
 that," added Miss Maria, listlessly. 
 
 " No, we don't ! " corrected Mr. Biggamore, earn 
 estly ; " go on and tell us everything." 
 
 So Miss Maria, as directed, told everything. 
 
 Stanwood Geikie, it appeared, had been extremely 
 catholic in his attentions, though, at the same time, 
 equally secretive. Neither had suspected his doings 
 with the other; and to Judie, as it turned out, he 
 had made his first declaration. But Judie, as one 
 learned, had been a bit of a coquette. She had been 
 immensely pleased by the man's interest in her ; yet 
 so far from accepting him outright, she 'd thought 
 it part of a fine lady to keep him dangling awhile. 
 Stanwood Geikie, however, was in no mood to play 
 the mouse to Judie's tabbikins ; for though Judie's 
 step-brother had not yet learned of the gentleman's 
 queer repute in other quarters, there was every rea 
 son to believe he would soon enough, and the matter 
 argued haste. So in a silent but boiling passion at 
 Judie the flirt, the impatient lover hurriedly trans 
 ferred all his attentions to the other sister, Miss 
 Margaret, whose full, given name, by the way, was 
 Margaret Maria. 
 
 It was a fine, enterprising little comedy ; for, 
 furthermore, while these three were prosecuting 
 their own involved love affairs, Randolph Tollabee, 
 
 442
 
 THE STORY OF MARGARET TOLLABEE 
 
 in a quieter, more simple way, was carrying on his 
 own. " One day," narrated Miss Maria, dully, with 
 out emotion, " our step-brother came home and told 
 us he was engaged to the French girl. Judie, she 
 nearly fainted." 
 
 For Judie, it appeared, had even then been self- 
 centered enough to see at a flash what effect her step 
 brother's marriage would have on her future pros 
 pects. Still, she managed to hide her rage and dis 
 appointment ; and when the young French girl came 
 again, Judie glided up to her and with a face like the 
 mask of death managed to control herself far enough 
 to plant a Judas-kiss on the girl's cheek. 
 
 Had Stanwood Geikie learned at once of the im 
 pending marriage, it is doubtful whether the subse 
 quent events would have taken place. For the sisters, 
 through a subtle instinct of the man's real nature, 
 concealed the announcement from him, each one se 
 cretly laying her plans. Judie, knowing now she 
 had gone too far, tried furiously to repair the dam 
 age ; the deferred yes was volunteered offhand ; but 
 Mr. Geikie, not seeing a way to clear himself from the 
 other entanglement, or willing to take no risks, when 
 he had the matter fully in hand, coolly replied that 
 he had made other arrangements, and so left Judie to 
 her reflections. 
 
 It was about this time, too, that Phil's father, 
 Morton Geikie, had given to his brother Stanwood 
 another chance. He, that is, Morton Geikie, was 
 associated in a bond concern with both Tollabee and 
 Mr. Biggamore; and for the first time since the 
 
 oo 
 
 443
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 squandering of his fortune Stanwood Geikie began 
 earning a little money in other ways than by his 
 wits. But so far from appreciating his brother's 
 kindness, the man secretly raged at getting nothing 
 better than a clerkship, and having his hands near 
 to so much ready cash, he discreetly availed himself 
 of the opportunity. 
 
 Thereafter events hurried swiftly. Rumors were 
 heard about Stanwood Geikie's name among women. 
 Randolph Tollabee's door was closed against him, the 
 bond concern began to wake up, and the stock mar 
 ket, after having gone from bad to worse, broke un 
 charitably, and wiped out not only all of Stanwood 
 Geikie's speculations, but pricked the bubble of his 
 expectations too. 
 
 Therefore, the marriage ! The secretive Miss 
 Maria was led secretly to a secret place, and there, 
 as she was made to believe, she became the wife of 
 our gentlemanly adventurer, a fact or a theory, 
 as the case may be which, the gentleman was care 
 ful to impress on her at the time, must remain a 
 secret for the present. 
 
 There were two reasons why he went through the 
 form for it was, at least, a form of marriage. 
 One was the hope of falling heir to the Tollabee 
 money, should Tollabee die; the other, and the more 
 imperative one now, was that if the embezzlement 
 were discovered and the blame put on the guilty per 
 son, Tollabee would be unlikely to proceed against 
 him when he found him to be his brother-in-law. 
 
 But the man had not yet come to the last ditch. 
 444
 
 THE STORY OF MARGARET TOLLABEE 
 
 Therefore the marriage had been secret. If the 
 thief was not discovered, and if Tollabee left no 
 money to his sisters, the ingenious Mr. Geikie would 
 be free to prosecute his efforts elsewhere; he could 
 deny the marriage, and Miss Maria, having been 
 bamboozled into allowing the knot to be tied by an 
 alderman, whose name she had n't heard, and who she 
 was not in the least certain was even the alderman as 
 he was represented to be, Miss Maria, having been 
 cheated so, might go and whistle for her pains. 
 
 Very thoughtful ! And very ingenious, too ! How 
 clearly our handsome picaroon looked ahead into the 
 future may also be understood from the following 
 sequence of events. 
 
 Randolph Tollabee walked to the altar with his 
 blushing little French language teacher; and the 
 modest though flourishing bond concern awoke to 
 the fact that its assets had been wiped out by a 
 theft. 
 
 But, as we already know, the man had so ar 
 ranged matters beforehand that the guilt fell on 
 someone else, and that someone was his brother. 
 There was no prosecution ; Stanwood Geikie escaped 
 scot free; and Randolph Tollabee having arranged 
 to leave his money elsewhere, Mr. Geikie cheerfully 
 disavowed the marriage, though it was at a time 
 when Miss Maria had every reason to show her cer 
 tificate to the world. 
 
 It was curious to view her apathy when she came 
 to this part of her tale. Long years of deceit and 
 suffering had calloused Miss Maria's mind, and she 
 
 445
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 told it all with an impersonal frankness that was 
 very close to the grotesque. " Judie guessed it 
 first," she said casually, with a little sigh, " and was 
 going to turn me out of doors." 
 
 But Judie had n't, after all. It appeared that 
 Judie, after raging a while and saying all her social 
 ambitions would be ruined social ambitions, mind 
 you ! Judie had stopped long enough to ask who 
 was the author of her sister's downfall. Thereupon 
 Miss Maria, filled with shame and anguish, had de 
 clined to tell. 
 
 More raging, after that. More high words and 
 thunderbolts from the black, snappy eyes. Then 
 Judie, with her usual decision of character, had sat 
 down to think it out. The upshot was that she and 
 Miss Maria exiled themselves in a quiet country town 
 on Long Island; and there, under an assumed 
 name, the unhappy woman remained, threatened with 
 brain fever, until the crippled child came into the 
 world. 
 
 " I was called Mrs. Pinchin," added Miss Maria, 
 weariedly. 
 
 " Hey ? " exclaimed Mr. Biggamore, gaping. 
 
 "Oh, yes; Judie gave it to me. She just made 
 it up. Later she took the name for herself." 
 
 And so the child came into the world, a poor, 
 shapeless, misborn little cripple; and the deluded 
 mother, her shame concealed for a time, went back 
 to the city and took up the burden of her ruined 
 existence. 
 
 " Judie said I 'd have to leave the baby she 
 446
 
 THE STORY OF MARGARET TOLLABEE 
 
 was n't going to take any chances. So we came 
 home together, and Judie gave a party." 
 
 " A what? " burst out Mr. Biggamore. 
 
 " Don't interrupt me so. It 's all I can do any 
 way to keep this business in mind." Miss Maria 
 licked her lips as she blinked at him. " I tell you, 
 Judie gave a party. She always did when she met 
 any new people she thought could help her. All 
 these were new people about a dozen or so and 
 she hardly knew their names. I don't know where 
 she picked them up she was always doing it 
 and when I dragged myself into the parlor, there 
 was Stanwood Geikie." 
 
 " But, good Heavens ! " expostulated Mr. Bigga 
 more, puffing up his cheeks. " Why ! " 
 
 " You must keep still, sir. I 'm giving you the 
 facts. Judie 'd met him again somewhere in the 
 street, I guess and as I 'd refused to tell her about 
 him, she still did n't know who was my baby's father. 
 So, of course he saw I was holding my tongue, and 
 Judie, who still had hopes, asked him to the house." 
 
 "But Tollabee had kicked him out!" cried Mr. 
 Biggamore, in his amazement, unable to hold his 
 tongue. " How did she dare? " 
 
 " Oh, I know. But Randolph was in Europe, and 
 she thought he wouldn't find out. Anyway she'd 
 asked Stanwood Geikie, and he 'd come, fast enough. 
 I nearly fainted. I could see him grin at me out 
 of the corner of his eyes, and all that evening I 
 nearly died, too all the evening, I sat in a corner, 
 and when anyone tried to talk to me I just stared 
 
 447
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 at them. After a while, they all went to supper. 
 Judie always gave people a lot to eat. Well, they 
 went out to supper all except us two. So that 
 was my chance, I thought, and I got down on my 
 knees to him, and " 
 
 " On your knees ! to that scoundrel ? " 
 
 Miss Maria nodded carelessly. " Yes, and I 
 begged and begged him, and he only laughed at 
 me. Then I told him if he would n't, I 'd never speak 
 to him again. Well, he would n't," said Miss Maria, 
 sighing ; " and I never have." 
 
 "God A'mighty!" interjected Mr. Biggamore, 
 his eyes staring; and Corrie, leaving her seat, went 
 and put an arm around the sobbing, wretched crea 
 ture. " Poor, poor Aunt Margaret," she murmured, 
 with a generous tact, rather unusual in the face of 
 the circumstances ; and Miss Maria drove back her 
 tears, and looked up at her with eyes shining grate 
 fully like a dog's. 
 
 " But, of course, I could n't," added Miss Maria, 
 striving to make clear a fact that was already clear ; 
 " no not after the way he 'd acted. And I never 
 did not a single word from that night right up 
 to now." 
 
 However, that was n't all. A few weeks passed, 
 Miss Maria, in the meanwhile, eating out her heart 
 with anguish at the thought of the crippled child, 
 now farmed out among strangers ; and then one 
 night, she went into the hall and found Judie Tol- 
 labee with her hat on, and a bag in her hand. It was 
 pretty late at night, too. 
 
 448
 
 THE STORY OF MARGARET TOLLABEE 
 
 " Where are you going? " Miss Maria had asked, 
 astonished. 
 
 Judie put down her bag. " I 'm going out." 
 Then she paused and looked at her sister. " Mar 
 garet, he made me promise I wouldn't tell anyone. 
 He was particular about you, besides. But I 'm 
 going to tell. I can't keep the secret, I 'm so happy. 
 I can't keep it any longer. I 'm going to be 
 married." 
 
 Miss Maria had fairly screamed at her : " Tell 
 me his name! " 
 
 It was as she thought. Judie had told, and then 
 Miss Maria, raving hysterically, had thrown her 
 self on her knees. " You can't ! He 's mine already ! 
 He 's my child's father ! He 's the one ! I tell you 
 he 's married to me ! " 
 
 It appears that Judie had not taken the news 
 kindly. She burst into a terrible wrath, raging at 
 her sister for having deceived her, furious at having 
 been played with and tricked, frenzied at the ruining 
 of her dreams, since she 'd hoped to find in the mar 
 riage which, no doubt, would have turned out no 
 bit different than her sister's the path to social 
 eminence. But after another interval of high strikes, 
 Judie Tollabee had suddenly put a hand to her 
 throat, gagged once, and then pitched over on her 
 face in a fit. 
 
 "That's what made her lame," explained Miss 
 Maria, apathetically. " She got a terrible limp from 
 it." 
 
 And in addition to the limp, Judie Tollabee got a 
 29 449
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 warning. She was told to go slow or the next shock 
 might prove fatal. There must be no more high liv 
 ing the sipping, tasting, guzzling, gorging, and 
 what not, that, even then, were the chief elements in 
 Judie's greedy being. No more rages, either, or 
 Judie had better look out. No' more antics of any 
 kind, unless she wished to pay the penalty. So after 
 carefully writing a perfectly calm letter, in which 
 she told her lover she was indisposed and could n't 
 oblige him with another mock marriage, and adding 
 afterward, in the same placid, unemotional way, that 
 she thought him a sharper, a cheat and a thief 
 after this perfectly calm little indulgence, Judie 
 settled down to a life that was about as pleasant 
 to her and as full of joy and comfort and delight 
 as a residence in Greenwood Cemetery. Thus, for 
 two years Judie eked out a morose and sullen exis 
 tence, and then Randolph Tollabee's wife died and 
 the widower became seriously ill and Judie began 
 to take a new interest in affairs. 
 
 " She said things were looking brighter," Miss 
 Maria droned, exactly expressing it. 
 
 But not for long, it turned out. Tollabee wrote 
 that he was coming home to live with them, and then 
 on top of this, while Judie and her sister were mak 
 ing ready, there came another letter, saying he had 
 changed his mind. In fact, Tollabee washed his 
 hands clear of his sister ; someone had told him how 
 Judie, in defiance of his orders, had asked Stanwood 
 Geikie to her home, and, furthermore, a whisper had 
 reached Tollabee of her evident intention to marry 
 
 450
 
 THE STORY OF MARGARET TOLLABEE 
 
 the man. There was not even the slightest doubt 
 he was outraged, and so outraged that he took no 
 pains to conceal it. 
 
 " I thought Judie 'd have another fit," said Miss 
 Maria, reminiscently ; " but she did n't. She calmed 
 down, after a while, and then she began to think. 
 Yes and when Judie begins to think, I begin to 
 get scared," observed Miss Maria, reflectively ; " and 
 that was one of the times, too, when I had every 
 reason to be." 
 
 For Miss Maria, after the first anguish over her 
 child, now deserted among strangers, had found 
 time to consider her own position. Though inno 
 cent, and tricked into her plight by a false marriage, 
 she knew, nevertheless, that if anything were found 
 out about it, she would be ruined to a certainty. So 
 when Judie began to think, Maria began to get 
 frightened. 
 
 " She said she guessed she 'd have to tell him," 
 repeated Miss Maria, dully ; " and so I got down 
 on my knees again." 
 
 It was just another appeal; Miss Maria appeared 
 to have gone down on her knees a great many times 
 in her woe-begone existence. 
 
 " You see, Judie thought it 'd be the only way 
 to explain things. She was going to tell Randolph 
 what Stanwood Geikie had done to me, and then say 
 she 'd brought him to the house, only to make him 
 acknowledge his marriage. I begged her to think 
 of my poor, little crippled child and what would 
 happen to it, if I was turned into the street. You 
 
 451
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 see, I didn't know what Randolph would do to me. 
 He was supporting me giving Judie and me the 
 money we lived on ; and he was so angry at what 
 Judie 'd done, he was threatening to cut it off. Then 
 I 'd gone away, too, with Stanwood Geikie, after 
 he 'd been ordered out of the house, and there was 
 no telling what Randolph might do ; and the little 
 money that Randolph's father had left my mother 
 was n't enough to keep us. So I begged Judie to 
 think of my baby, and Judie said there was n't any 
 use to not when she was so bothered about her 
 own allowance umph! " recited Miss Maria, with 
 a troubled sniff. 
 
 " But I kept on begging. I told her, besides, that 
 he 'd know she was only lying I mean that part, 
 you know, about getting Stanwood Geikie to the 
 house and making him marry me. I showed her how 
 he must suspect already that Judie had wanted to 
 marry him herself; and when I got that far, Judie 
 sat back and began to bite her lip. ' Why, I had n't 
 thought of that,' she said. ' Yes, I guess I won't 
 tell him yet, about you and your doings.' So I got 
 up from my knees, and Judie wrote a long letter, 
 begging Randolph's forgiveness. She said she 'd 
 given a big party, and that Stanwood Geikie had 
 come without an invitation ; but I don't think Judie 
 did it very cleverly. No, I guess not. Anyway, 
 Judie pretty nearly had another stroke when she 
 got his answer. 
 
 " He was even more angry than before. I guess 
 he knew she was lying. He wrote that if the party 
 
 452
 
 THE STORY OF MARGARET TOLLABEE 
 
 was to blame, Judie should give no more parties. 
 They were only extravagant, and there was no rea 
 son why he should deny himself and his little girl 
 to pay for Judie's amusements. So our allowance 
 was reduced, so that we had just enough to live on 
 comfortably. 
 
 " I did n't care. It was enough to keep me and 
 my baby ; and then I knew he 'd lost a lot of money 
 when the bond concern failed. Stanwood Geikie, I 
 guess, had pretty nearly cleaned them out; and 
 though Randolph suspected him of the theft, that 
 man had fixed up the books so they 'd think his 
 brother was guilty, too." 
 
 " Yes, the scoundrel ! " muttered Mr Biggamore. 
 
 Miss Maria turned around to Corrie. " You '11 
 be patient, won't you? " she asked in a tired voice. 
 " I have to tell this the way it happened, or I won't 
 be able to remember it. My head's just going 
 round and round as it is." She paused, and studied 
 the carpet a moment. 
 
 " Judie began to hate you right there," said Miss 
 Maria, aimlessly. " She said you and your mother 
 had done her out of what was rightfully hers Ran 
 dolph's money, you know and she 'd like to throt 
 tle you. She nearly had another fit when she read 
 out to me what he said about refusing to deny his 
 little girl you, Corrie to pay for Judie's amuse 
 ments. Oh, she was just hopping. But, by and by, 
 she turned around and got furious at me, too, for 
 not letting her write Randolph about me and my 
 baby. She said she was going to do it now ; and so 
 
 453
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 I got down on my knees again. But it did n't do 
 any good," added Miss Maria, and began to fan 
 herself with her papers. 
 
 " I guess Judie was so upset she really did n't 
 know what she was doing. She told everything, and 
 then gave her excuse that she 'd only had the man 
 here to try and make him marry me. Afterwards, 
 she apologized for having made such a mistake; it 
 was only her kind-heartedness that had kept her 
 from turning me out of doors after the way I 'd 
 brought shame on them all. I told Judie she ought 
 not to write that, but she said for me to mind my own 
 business ; and if I 'd had my baby with me then, I 
 don't think we 'd have bothered Judie any more 
 or anyone else," said Miss Maria, reflecting. 
 
 " Good Lord ! oh, come, come ! " protested Mr. 
 Biggamore ; " you must n't talk like that." 
 
 " No, it 's too late now, anyway," answered Miss 
 Maria, feebly ; " besides, I have to take care of 
 Judie." 
 
 But what happened was this: Judie had sent the 
 second letter, and Tollabee had answered it, express 
 ing profound regret for poor Miss Maria and her 
 child, and contempt for a sister who could talk of 
 turning the wretched woman into the street. 
 
 " Anyway, Randolph said that as I was the only 
 one who had n't wilfully lied to him, he 'd stand by 
 me. I was to have enough to take care of me and 
 the baby, but Judie 'd have to look out for herself. 
 He said he had you to think of besides, Corrie ; so 
 he cut off her allowance altogether yes, he did ! " 
 
 454
 
 THE STORY OF MARGARET TOLLABEE 
 
 affirmed Miss Maria, earnestly ; " and Judie took on 
 so, it nearly broke my heart. 
 
 " You see," continued Miss Maria, after a reflec 
 tive pause, " she thought she 'd have to find some 
 work to support her a place in a store, or com 
 panion to a lady like she 'd read about ; or maybe 
 she 'd get to be a dressmaker. But Judie was too 
 lame to stand up in a shop, and she did n't know 
 how to sew well enough to become a dressmaker, and 
 when she thought of hiring out to wait on a lady, 
 she 'd almost go into hysterics at the idea of being 
 snubbed and ordered around and made to wait on 
 someone. She said she 'd die first, and I nearly cried 
 my eyes out over her, I was so sorry. I used to pray 
 then it was before I got afraid to show myself 
 in a church and so I prayed and prayed for Judie, 
 and I think God heard my prayers. Anyway, Judie 
 did n't have to take a place. Just as we were getting 
 ready to move into a boarding-house, where Judie 
 was going to stay until I found something to do, 
 why I got a telegram that Randolph Tollabee was 
 dying, and Judie nearly went out of her mind. 
 
 " I guess she did ; anyway, she said my prayers 
 had been answered." 
 
 455
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 Relating how Randolph Tollabee died, and how his relatives 
 promptly took charge of his child. What became of the 
 missing Geikie papers. Judie's clever administration 
 of the estate. Margaret Tollabee's child, and why Mrs. 
 Pinchin never learned cooking in jail. Stanwood Geikie 
 on the scene. Blood money, and why being found out is 
 sometimes the costliest sin of all. Mrs. Pinchin's in 
 terest in Phil explained at last. Miss Maria ends her 
 tale. 
 
 MISS MARIA paused long enough to look wist 
 fully at Corrie. " You 're not dreadfully an 
 gry at me, are you ? I was n't always cruel and 
 wicked, and I tried to be as kind as I dared. You 
 won't be too mad at me, will you ? " 
 
 Corrie shook her head hurriedly. " No ; go on. 
 I wish to hear about it." She leaned forward ab- 
 sorbedly, her fingers knitted together, her face quite 
 pale. 
 
 " All right, then so as you 're not too angry 
 at me," said Miss Maria, picking up the threads of 
 her story. 
 
 There had come the message that Randolph Tol 
 labee was dying; and Judie had said she was going 
 to him. Miss Maria had tried to dissuade her, but 
 the determined woman only declared further she 
 was going to appeal to him on his death-bed. She 
 wished to find out whether he would n't leave her 
 
 456
 
 MISS MARIA ENDS HER TALE 
 
 something ; and in a perfect fury of haste, she made 
 her sister pack a bag and rush for a train. Her 
 hands, in fancy, were already on the dying man's 
 money ; it is not improbable that, even at this early 
 stage, she had conceived the cheat she later put 
 into effect; and through the night's journey, she 
 sat up in the sleeping car, her hat on and chafing 
 at every delay. Long before they arrived at the 
 little town in the spruce woods, she was moving about 
 excitedly, and urging Maria to get ready ; and when 
 they got out, eventually, the first question she asked, 
 was: " He ain't dead yet, is he?" 
 
 " No, ma'am, but they don't cal'late he '11 live 
 the day aout," answered the driver of the waiting 
 buckboard. 
 
 Indeed, Randolph Tollabee lay in the final coma 
 when they reached the little cottage. 
 
 " I plumb gave out, and began to cry," sniffed 
 Miss Maria, beginning to shed a few more tears in 
 remembrance. " But you could n't blame me. He 'd 
 always been kind to me, and I just had to cry. 
 Judie didn't though; so I saw she hadn't for 
 given him. At least, that was what I thought 
 about it. She took off her bonnet, and began 
 poking around just as soon as she 'd taken one 
 look at him; and I wondered what had got into 
 Judie." 
 
 For in a short hour Randolph Tollabee was dead ; 
 and then Judie had gone to work in earnest. Miss 
 Maria, weeping at the bedside, had heard her open 
 ing and closing drawers, and rummaging among 
 
 457
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 papers ; and presently she came in, crying gleefully : 
 " I 've found them ! " 
 
 " But see here ! " protested Mr. Biggamore, out 
 raged, " was n't there anyone else in the house? " 
 
 " Not then," answered Miss Maria, after a mo 
 ment's thought ; " the doctor had gone away, and 
 there were only two servants a woman from the 
 village, who did the cooking and housework, and 
 Corrie's nurse. The nurse was an English girl that 
 he 'd brought over from the other side. Judie paid 
 her passage home, a few days later, and gave her 
 two months' wages beside. She thought Judie was 
 mighty nice and kind." 
 
 " Humph ! I have no doubt ! " snorted Mr. Big 
 gamore. " But what was it that your precious sis 
 ter found?" 
 
 Miss Maria looked at him sharply. " You 
 must n't talk like that about Judie," she retorted 
 vexedly ; " or I won't tell you any more." 
 
 " You were going to tell me what she 'd found," 
 suggested Mr. Biggamore, mildly. 
 
 " Papers," answered Miss Maria, going on. 
 " Judie sent the house girl away on an errand, and 
 then she went out into the garden where you, Cor- 
 rie, and your nurse were, and she sent the nurse 
 away on another message. You were left playing 
 alone in the garden, Corrie, and Judie found the 
 papers." 
 
 " Tollabee's will, I suppose," growled Mr. Big 
 gamore under his breath ; " I imagine there was one." 
 
 " There were two," corrected Miss Maria, " or, 
 458
 
 MISS MARIA ENDS HER TALE 
 
 at least, one and the part of another one. He 'd 
 tried to rewrite the old will, but hadn't strength 
 enough. It left an allowance to Judie and me 
 the same allowance he 'd made us before he took 
 Judie's away. In the second will, he 'd cut her out 
 altogether; and Judie burned that one before I 
 could stop her. The other, she kept." 
 
 " Where is it now ? " demanded Mr. Biggamore. 
 
 " He stole it Stanwood Geikie, you know 
 along with a lot of other Tollabee papers." 
 
 " But I don't know," contradicted Mr. Bigga 
 more, excitedly ; so Corrie broke in, and hurriedly 
 told what had happened, the theft that had resulted 
 in Mrs. Pinchin's apoplectic stroke. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! this has got me beaten ! " he 
 exclaimed, throwing up both hands. " Go on, Miss 
 Tollabee ; I '11 keep quiet now." 
 
 So Judie had cried, " I 've found them ! " and af 
 ter showing the two documents to Miss Maria she 
 had tossed one into the blazing grate. 
 
 " I got good and scared then," continued Miss 
 Maria. " I was afraid she 'd get into trouble, so 
 I looked around while she was outside, and I found 
 a lot of other papers. I have them here in my 
 hands." 
 
 Miss Maria leaned over and began untying the 
 tape around the package, and after running through 
 the papers, she looked up at Mr. Biggamore. 
 
 " You remember the papers your brother-in-law 
 came after? Morton Geikie, I mean. Judie was 
 scared almost to death. Well, she told the truth 
 
 459 s
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 when she said she had n't seen them, because she 
 had n't. I stole them, and she never knew where 
 they were until I told her a few days ago last Sun 
 day, I guess it was. I knew what they were as soon 
 as Morton Geikie asked for them, and then I took a 
 look. They would have sent Stanwood Geikie to 
 jail, if I had given them up. You can have them 
 now." .. 
 
 Mr. Biggamore fairly snatched the papers from 
 her hands, bobbing his head still more energetically, 
 as he opened first one and then the other; and Cor- 
 rie gazed at Miss Maria piteously. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Maria Aunt Margaret ! How could 
 you keep them? Don't you know what happened 
 to Phil's father?" 
 
 " Yes, I know ; and I guess I was crazy. I 
 thought maybe I could use them sometime to make 
 Stanwood Geikie marry me. Anyway, I did n't want 
 to send him to jail, and and oh, .well, I loved 
 him. I wanted him to come back to me." 
 
 Mr. Biggamore stared at her open-mouthed over 
 the top of his glasses. " You mean to say that 
 you 'd have married that blackguard, after all? " 
 
 " Oh, yes anyhow up till this morning, when 
 I found out he 'd tried to play his tricks on Corrie. 
 I used to remember him as he was when I first knew 
 him and I carried his picture, too j ust as he 
 was, you know, when I 'd first met him, and he was 
 trying to be nice and sweet and gentlemanly. But 
 when I heard about his trying to marry Corrie here 
 for her fortune he 'd seen the game was up, I sup- 
 
 460
 
 MISS MARIA ENDS HER TALE 
 
 pose, and would really have married you for your 
 money and to keep out of trouble. Anyway, when 
 I heard about it, something went snap! in my heart, 
 and I only hated him. But I did love him for years, 
 all the same." 
 
 " Live and learn ! " muttered Mr. Biggamore, sen- 
 tentiously, and bit his lip. 
 
 So Judie had made her plans. She decided to take 
 Corrie home to New York with her ; for it appeared 
 then to have been her intention to probate the un- 
 destroyed will, and, as executrix, to keep control 
 of the money. The document, written before Tol- 
 labee had discerned his step-sister's real character, 
 named her and Miss Maria as guardians in event 
 of his death ; and he had tried too late to write 
 another. Thus, on the face of it, the field was clear ; 
 and after disposing of Morton Geikie, who had come 
 for his papers, and seeing Randolph Tollabee into 
 his grave, Judie, her sister, and Corrie went back 
 to the city, and there Judie wasted no time. 
 
 " She did n't tell me a word what she meant to do," 
 said Miss Maria, drearily. " The day after we came 
 home, she went away early in the morning, and when 
 she walked in at night, she had my baby in her arms. 
 She 'd been all the way out there on Long Island to 
 get it. I nearly died of joy, and I threw my arms 
 around her, and told her how good she was to me. 
 But Judie told me to shut up ; she was n't going 
 to let me live with my little girl, so that everyone 
 would find out about it. She only meant to have 
 it nearer home. Then, the next day, she went out 
 
 461
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 again early, and I did n't see her till night. But I 
 did n't think about that. I had my baby, and I 
 tried all day to make it smile, and I could n't, and 
 then part of the day I tried to get its arms and legs 
 straight, and I could n't do that, either. So when 
 Judie came in, I was crying. ' Stop your bawling,' 
 she said to me ; ' we 're going to move.' ' 
 
 And move they did; for Judie's scheme was 
 sprouting out. They moved, and the crippled child 
 was left behind with an attendant, who was told 
 that it was Randolph Tollabee's child. Miss Maria 
 had gone down on her knees again on hearing this 
 deceit, but to no avail. " I '11 tell on you," she had 
 threatened finally, and Judie had looked at her with 
 a flaming face. 
 
 " Do it, if you dare ! " she threatened in turn. 
 " That money or a part of it, anyway, belongs 
 to me. I 'm not going to let any brat stand in my 
 way. I 've offered the will for probate, and if you 
 say anything about the one I burned, everyone shall 
 know about that child of yours and your shame. 
 Now go ahead and tell, if you like." 
 
 Miss Maria took off her spectacles, which had 
 grown blurred during the recital, and blinked while 
 she wiped them with the edge of her skirt. " I did n't 
 go down on my knees any more," she murmured; 
 " I just kept on saying ' I '11 tell! I '11 tell! I '11 
 tell ! ' " 
 
 " I 'm going to keep what 's my own," Judie had 
 responded ; " anyhow, I 'm going to keep it till I 
 die. I don't care what happens to it then. But 
 
 462
 
 MISS MAKIA ENDS HER TALE 
 
 if you tell on me now, I '11 go to jail. They '11 ar 
 rest me for burning up the other will, and then 
 where '11 you be? " 
 
 " It 's stealing ! " Miss Maria had cried. 
 
 " No, it ain't," her sister had answered, with a 
 ready retort ; " the money 's rightfully mine. Ran 
 dolph Tollabee promised to leave it to me, and if 
 it had n't been for that French teacher, and now this 
 brat, I 'd have had it. Besides, what can this child 
 do with all that much money, anyway? " 
 
 But Miss Maria had still protested it was steal 
 ing. If Judie was not meaning to steal all of it, 
 rather than a part only, why had she substituted 
 one child for another. Precisely! And Judie had 
 a ready answer for that, too. Corrie might not 
 die, and if she were allowed to remain known as the 
 heir, there would be a lot of trouble when the time 
 came to turn over her fortune to her. 
 
 Then Miss Maria had suddenly grown cold. " But 
 my baby my little girl whom you 've put in her 
 place ! " she had wept. " She can't live very long. 
 What will you do with all the money when she dies ? " 
 
 Precisely ! and Judie's eyes had glittered. Ju 
 die had already made plans for what she 'd do with 
 it. 
 
 " Now let 's have an end to this foolishness," she 
 had growled roughly. " Here 's your choice : We '11 
 move where we 're not known, and your child '11 re 
 main here. She '11 be known as Dorothy Tollabee, 
 and I '11 be known as Mrs. Pinchin. That 's so we '11 
 be safe, if anyone recognizes us. If they do, and 
 
 463
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 things come to the worst, I '11 say Corrie 's my child, 
 and that Stanwood Geikie 's her father. That ought 
 to satisfy you yes, after the way you 've howled 
 around about your virtue, Miss Margaret Maria 
 Tollabee. We '11 keep your child here in the Tenth 
 Street house, and we '11 move over to Bend Street, 
 where we 're not known, and where there 's a little 
 house belonging to the estate. We can keep quiet, 
 for a while, then I 'm going to move uptown where 
 I can begin all over again. There 's no one but 
 trash anyway, down here, that comes to my parties, 
 and I intend to have a good time. Is it a go? " 
 
 " It 's stealing ! " wailed Miss Maria, still obsessed 
 by conscience. " I won't do it." 
 
 " All right then," retorted Judie, grimly ; *' I 
 suppose I '11 have to go to jail. I ? ve taken oath 
 at the Surrogate's office, and now I 'm in for it. 
 You '11 be glad when you see me in prison weaving 
 baskets and pounding oakum and washing dishes 
 for the convicts cooking for them, too, I 
 should n't wonder. Do you want me to learn cook 
 ing in jail? " 
 
 So rather than see her sister cooking for the con 
 victs, Miss Maria had given in. She said she 'd 
 submit, but in the same breath, she swore to Judie 
 that she 'd never accept a cent of the ill-gotten 
 booty, and that when Corrie came of age, she would 
 tell. 
 
 " Do as you please about that," answered Judie, 
 now newly christened as Mrs. Pinchin. " By the 
 time she comes of age, I '11 have had my fun, and 
 
 464
 
 MISS MARIA ENDS HER TALE 
 
 can die, perhaps. Or maybe I won't mind going 
 to jail after I 've enjoyed myself." 
 
 So the farce had been carried out: the servants 
 were dismissed, and new ones engaged; the new 
 house was opened, and the old one left as it was, 
 tenanted only by that substituted child and its at 
 tendants. In the neighborhood, the Tollabees were 
 said to have gone into the country; and when the 
 first year passed by safely, Mrs. Pinchin chuckled. 
 She chuckled still more at the second; and half 
 way through the third year she became positively 
 hilarious. 
 
 " Then the doorbell rang one day," said Miss 
 Maria, simply ; " and when I went down into the 
 parlor, there was Stanwood Geikie. He threw back 
 his head when he saw me, and laughed and laughed, 
 and I gave him one look, and then went upstairs 
 and told Judie." 
 
 For it had been as Miss Maria had suspected, 
 Stanwood Geikie had smelled out the fraud, and had 
 come to demand his share. 
 
 An hour later, Judie lurched back up the stairs, 
 her face like a death mask. She was wheezing and 
 gasping and her form trembled as if with a palsy. 
 " I 've fixed him," she guttered, and fought for 
 breath. "He knows all about it the fiend! 
 but I 've fixed him. He 's to have a third of my 
 income regularly, or he '11 go and tell. I 've prom 
 ised him." 
 
 " Every year, since then," said Miss Maria, with 
 out emotion, " he 's sucked the blood money out of 
 30 465
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 us. Once or twice, in years when he 'd lost in Wall 
 Street, he made Judie give him more than half. It 
 got so, Mr. Biggamore, that I begged her to run 
 away with me and my baby, and then write to you 
 what had happened. But Judie would n't. She said 
 she could n't give up her comforts. I think she 'd 
 have rather died." 
 
 But after this shock came a worse one. The Gei- 
 kies and Mr. Biggamore moved into the house be 
 hind the little gentleman's present residence. " One 
 of our servants told me, Mr. Biggamore," said Miss 
 Maria, coming to this. " The servant told me who 
 was moving in, and I nearly fainted. I 'd just been 
 to see my little girl, so I rushed upstairs to tell 
 Judie. But Judie 'd found out already, and was 
 raging. She knew your brother-in-law had recog 
 nized us, because she heard your nephew telling Cor- 
 rie. For weeks afterward, we wondered why nothing 
 was done about it. Why ! every time the doorbell 
 rang, Judie and I just died of fright! But nothing 
 happened, and we never knew why." 
 
 " I can explain that," said Mr. Biggamore, so 
 berly ; " my brother never told anyone but the boy. 
 He and Phil were alone in the house; my sister and 
 I had n't finished packing up at our old home. That 
 same night you ran away from Bend Street, Morton 
 Geikie killed himself. He could n't stand the shame 
 any longer of what his brother's rascality had cost 
 him." 
 
 But after the women and the child had fled to 
 another part of the city, Stanwood Geikie had taken 
 
 466
 
 MISS MARIA ENDS HER TALE 
 
 the abandoned house. He insisted on Mrs. Pinchin 
 giving it to him, but would offer no explanation 
 other than that he wished it. The reason they 
 learned later; he had heard from Mrs. Pinchin of 
 the probable existence of those papers Morton Gei- 
 kie had demanded, and the thought of them filled 
 his soul with uneasiness. He decided that Mr. Big- 
 gamore and Mrs. Geikie were holding them back 
 till they got a good chance to strike; or they were 
 waiting until he had enough money to make it worth 
 while to produce them. At the time, the profits 
 from his blackmail were large; he had increased it 
 by speculation, and with brighter fortune dawning, 
 Stanwood Geikie hoped to replace himself in the 
 world. But with the damning evidence of those pa 
 pers still in existence, there was no telling when the 
 sword might fall; and Stanwood Geikie lived many 
 uneasy moments at the thought of what might 
 happen. 
 
 " That 's what smashed us up," said Miss Maria, 
 frankly. " If it had n't been for his trying to work 
 on your nephew, Mr. Biggamore, we 'd never have 
 been found out." 
 
 Mr. Biggamore looked at her doubtfully. " How 
 do you mean, madam? I don't think I follow 
 you." 
 
 "Why," explained Miss Maria, "he tried to 
 get at Phil. He told Judie a long while after, that 
 he 'd tried to worm himself into the boy's good graces 
 and had failed. I guess he offered him money yes, 
 I thought so. His idea was to corrupt Phil with 
 
 467
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 money and presents, so that he 'd steal the papers 
 and bring them to him." 
 
 " Ah, yes ! I understand ! the scoundrel ! " mut 
 tered Mr. Biggamore; and Corrie, too, remembered 
 the episode of the dollar that had been hurled in 
 Uncle Stanwood's face. 
 
 " After that, we never had a moment's peace," said 
 Miss Maria. " One thing after another happened. 
 Corrie found the Tollabee books in the garret. 
 Then she began to insist on being told who she was ; 
 and the more Judie told stories, the worse it got. 
 I was getting down on my knees regularly now," 
 Miss Maria went on, listlessly ; " but Judie would n't 
 give up her comforts. She kept at it, and even then 
 she might have fooled you, Corrie, if Stanwood Geikie 
 had n't made Judie herself get after Phil." 
 
 " What 's that ? " demanded Mr. Biggamore, 
 again. 
 
 Miss Maria looked at him blankly, and then 
 seemed to understand. 
 
 " Oh ! you don't know about it ? Why, he had 
 a scheme for Judie to hire Phil as an architect, and 
 when she got him interested, she was to give him 
 an office with a safe in it. He 'd be expected to keep 
 his valuable papers in it, and Stanwood Geikie kind 
 of hoped the ones he wanted would be among them. 
 Then some night he would go get them." 
 
 " Oho ! " exclaimed Mr. Biggamore, remembering 
 Mrs. Pinchin's offer to Phil of an office with a safe 
 in it. " That makes it all clear now. Well go on, 
 if you please." 
 
 4G3
 
 MISS MARIA ENDS HER TALE 
 
 Judie, as Miss Maria clearly showed, had n't taken 
 kindly to the idea. She had protested from the start 
 that it was sheer idiocy. It was worse than that, 
 when he persisted coming to her house to see how 
 matters were getting along. 
 
 " That first Sunday night a week ago, she nearly 
 had a stroke, she was so frightened. She found out 
 you were trying to locate the house where we 'd lived, 
 Corrie. That young man let it out unconsciously. 
 So we knew you 'd been stirred up, and Judie 
 thought he 'd told you." 
 
 It came out further, that this had been a memor 
 able evening in more than one respect; a crucial 
 turning point in the fortunes of all concerned. For 
 in despite the fact that Miss Maria had learned her 
 child was in critical health, Mrs. Pinchin had not 
 only gone on with her party, but had insisted on 
 Miss Maria's presence. There was only one expla 
 nation of it: Mrs. Pinchin even then was frightened, 
 too afraid to be left alone. 
 
 " Why ! she was so frightened she cried," volun 
 teered Miss Maria ; " and the next morning she made 
 me stay and watch you. She went down to see how 
 my baby was getting on," Miss Maria's baby must 
 have been nearly twenty, then " and afterwards 
 she walked all the way to Stanwood Geikie's to tell 
 him she was n't going to take the risk for him, or 
 anyone else, no matter what he did to her. It was 
 the first time she 'd ever been there since we ran 
 away from that house, and she was frightened out 
 of her senses." 
 
 469
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 " Yes, I know," said Corrie, quietly ; " I saw 
 her." 
 
 Miss Maria stared vaguely, a moment, but made 
 no comment. " There ain't but a little more now," 
 she went on. " He made her keep at it ; your adver 
 tisement appeared, Mr. Biggamore ; and then I knew 
 it was all over. But Judie still would n't give in. 
 She said she was afraid to, and the way she told 
 stories to poor Corrie here just made me heartsick. 
 Then Stanwood Geikie came, and Judie said to him: 
 * We 're all going to jail, I guess.' She told me 
 afterward he grinned at her, and said he did n't 
 know what she meant. ' You 'ZZ go to jail, perhaps, 
 Judie, but they can't do anything to me? But I 
 guess he was pretty uneasy just the same, because 
 the morning after I 'd seen you, Mr. Biggamore, 
 he came up here and forced his way into Judie's 
 room. But when Judie said again, we were all going 
 to jail, he still laughed, and said it was none of his 
 concern where she went. She could go to Jericho, 
 if she chose, only he thought she was making a 
 mountain out of a molehill. He was always saying 
 that." 
 
 " Yes ; and I heard him say it," said Corrie, 
 remembering. 
 
 " Hmph ! " sniffed Miss Maria, savagely ; " but 
 he'd forgotten all about me! If there was any jail 
 opening for us, I made up my mind he 'd get a look 
 into it, too. So on Sunday morning last Sunday, 
 you know I told Judie about the papers I 'd 
 stolen years ago. They were the ones I 've just 
 
 470
 
 MISS MARIA ENDS HER TALE 
 
 given you, Mr. Biggamore. ' Oh, my God ! ' 
 screamed Judie, clutching me by the arm : * and 
 you 've had them all this time, and let that man 
 bleed me to the last drop of blood? Give them to 
 me ! ' But I would n't. I said I had them, and I 
 was going to keep them till the time came. ' But 
 you've got them you're sure?' asked Judie, and 
 it 's a wonder she did n't get her stroke then. ' If 
 you 've got them, I can get rid of that cheat and 
 blackmailer ! ' : 
 
 So armed with this weapon, Mrs. Pinchin had 
 hurried away from the house in Tenth Street, leav 
 ing Miss Maria to watch beside her dying daughter. 
 That night she had served warning on Stanwood 
 Geikie that she would submit to his brutality no 
 more; and had she not feared he would inform on 
 her, she was enraged enough to have refused further 
 payments of blackmail. 
 
 " I just knew, though," observed Miss Maria, 
 thoughtfully ; " that he 'd do what he did steal 
 our papers, I mean. I knew he was after the ones 
 I 've given to you, Mr. Biggamore ; but Judie was 
 afraid he 'd try to get his hands on the Tollabee 
 papers. But he was after the ones you have now, 
 Mr. Biggamore, when he broke into Judie's room; 
 and I guess he just took the others because they 
 were handy." 
 
 " Well, a lot of good they '11 do him now," snapped 
 Mr. Biggamore ; " and if he ever shows his face in 
 New York again, I '11 know how to take care of him. 
 But of course he won't hang around now," added 
 
 471
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 the little gentleman, regretfully ; " not when he 
 knows the cat 's out of the bag." 
 
 " No ; I guess he '11 skip," observed Miss Maria, 
 solemnly. " Well, as I was saying, Stanwood Gei- 
 kie broke into Judie's room, and then Judie came 
 home and had her shock. Now she 's all paralyzed, 
 and and " 
 
 Miss Maria drew in another long breath through 
 her nose, and slowly took off her spectacles. She 
 looked up at the ceiling while she wiped them on the 
 fold of her dress, and then she sniffed again. 
 
 "Well, that's all," she said, and with a little 
 gagging sob, buried her face in her hands. 
 
 472
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 And last. In which Mrs. Pinchin appeals. Carrie's stolen 
 childhood. Phil Geikie declines to see Miss Dorothy 
 Tollabee. Mr. Biggamore's embarrassment at the tableau 
 in the drawing-room. How Corrie was willing at last. 
 The foreword before FINIS. Miss Maria finds herself 
 to be a wife. Stanwood GeiJne's confession and flight. 
 The scene in the street car. Corrie 's tender-hearted 
 sympathy. FINIS. 
 
 SO now the story was told, the grotesque and 
 shameful farce laid bare; and when Miss Maria 
 came to the end of her tale, and covered her face 
 with her hands, Corrie and Mr. Biggamore sat look 
 ing at her silently. In the h'ttle gentleman's face was 
 a curious expression ; he sucked in his lip dubiously, 
 and fell to tugging energetically at his forelock. 
 
 " Madam," he said reflectively, " I believe you 've 
 been punished enough already, well, upon my soul, 
 I believe I 'm sorry for you ! " 
 
 Miss Maria recovered herself far enough to look 
 up at him wryly. " I 'm not asking your pity," she 
 retorted ; " you can keep it till it 's wanted." 
 
 But this gleam of spirit was only a flying spark ; 
 it burned itself away quickly ; and Miss Maria turned 
 toward the girl. " What are you going to do to us, 
 Corrie ? that 's really your name, too. Your father 
 called you Dorrie, for Dorothy, and you could n't get 
 it any nearer than Corrie. I would n't let Judie 
 
 473
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 change it I thought it 'd be a shame." Miss 
 Maria wiped her eyes again. " What are you go 
 ing to do to us, Corrie? I know you 've promised, 
 but " 
 
 Corrie sadly shook her head. " Nothing, Miss 
 Maria. I would have done nothing, even if I had n't 
 given my promise." 
 
 " And you won't send Judie to prison? There! I 
 told Judie you 'd be kind and soft-hearted like that, 
 when you knew. Now you 're going to be nice and 
 sweet to Judie, won't you ? Just think how she 's 
 suffered." 
 
 " Oh, good Lord ! " exclaimed Mr. Biggamore, 
 and flounced across the room. 
 
 Miss Maria, who was watching Corrie intently, 
 gave no heed to the little gentleman's petulance. 
 " You will be nice and kind, won't you, Corrie? " 
 
 But Corrie evaded the question. " Does Mrs. Pin- 
 chin know you 've told me ? " she asked. 
 
 Miss Maria sighed regretfully. " I think she sus 
 pects. That 's why I wanted an hour to make up my 
 mind. I told Judie I guessed we 'd better give in, 
 and that anyway she could n't give any more parties 
 or wear fine things or eat such a lot of good things 
 any more. She 's got to take care of herself ; and 
 besides, how 'd she look walking around in jail with 
 a cane ? ' Why, you 'd look like a perfect fool, 
 Judie ! ' I told her ; and I should n't wonder but she 
 thought so, too." 
 
 " I 'd like to see her," said Corrie, suddenly. 
 " Won't you please go tell her I 'm coming? " 
 
 474
 
 THE TABLEAU IN THE DRAWING-ROOM 
 
 Miss Maria got up slowly. " You won't be cross ? " 
 she pleaded; and Corrie shaking her head, Miss 
 Maria glided away dowdy, stoop-shouldered, more 
 self-debased than ever; yet, with all that, almost 
 noble in her devotion to the greedy, selfish woman 
 who had wretchedly debauched such love. Presently 
 Miss Maria returned and crooked her finger at Cor 
 rie ; and the girl went up the stairs to that darkened 
 room above. 
 
 The twisted, masklike face lay among the pillows, 
 its closed eyes turned upward to the ceiling. At the 
 noise of the door closing, Mrs. Pinchin breathed 
 deeply, and a movement ran through her frame, out 
 lined largely beneath the coverings, as if she strove 
 to huddle down in the four-poster. Then her one eye 
 opened furtively, and, as quickly, shut itself; Mrs. 
 Pinchin breathed again deeply ; and Corrie, standing 
 by the bed, silently looked at her. 
 
 Mrs. Pinchin spoke: 
 
 " What are you going to do to me? " Miss Maria 
 had said us. Whether Mrs. Pinchin thought herself 
 the one conspirator, or whether she had no thought 
 of others, who can say? "Are you going to get 
 square? " she demanded grimly, perhaps defiantly. 
 " I have n't stolen anything." 
 
 Corrie made no reply. 
 
 " No, I have n't," reasserted Mrs. Pinchin. 
 " You 've got more money now than there ever was." 
 Corrie still was silent. " I have n't stolen anything 
 from you, Corrie. No no, I have n't." There she 
 caught at her breath ; a little whimper came breaking 
 
 475
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 from her lips, and a tear, pendent on one thick lid, 
 rolled across her leathery face. But it was a tear of 
 self-pity rather than for any regret of what she 
 had done to this girl. " I suppose I 'm going to be 
 turned out, and lose all I got. But I thought I 
 thought," she whimpered, her voice breaking, " I 
 thought maybe you 'd be a little kind to me, now that 
 I made Maria tell you. Yes, I just had to make her 
 do it. Are n't you going to forgive me ? I have n't 
 really stolen anything." 
 
 " Forgive you ? No, I can never forgive you, Mrs. 
 Pinchin." 
 
 The figure in the bed tried forcefully to raise it 
 self. Then, after the futile effort, Mrs. Pinchin lay 
 back among the pillows, and began to mutter thickly. 
 " I did n't steal anything, I tell you. No, I did n't. 
 I did n't steal a thing. You 've got more than there 
 ever was, I say." 
 
 Corrie threw out both her hands in a gesture of 
 appealing wistful trouble. " Oh, Mrs. Pinchin ! " she 
 cried brokenly, " how can I forgive you when you 've 
 stolen away my childhood." 
 
 " Unh ! " grunted the figure in the bed, and so 
 Corrie left her. 
 
 Mr. Biggamore, who, during this interval, had been 
 peering through the lace draperies of the drawing- 
 room window, let fall an abrupt exclamation. " Con 
 found him ! " he cried wrathfully. " I 'd like to 
 know now what the young idiot 's up to. Hey! " 
 beckoning furiously through the glass, and then 
 
 476
 
 THE TABLEAU IN THE DRAWING-ROOM 
 
 " Oh, my dear young girl ! I beg your pardon. Ex 
 cuse me, just a moment." 
 
 Mr. Biggamore hurried to the front door, and at 
 the sight of him, Phil, who had stopped on the side 
 walk opposite to moon up at the windows, scowled 
 frightfully, and walked on. " Hey ! you Phil 
 there ! " bawled the little gentleman ; and Phil hav 
 ing turned, Mr. Biggamore violently signaled him 
 to draw near. 
 
 " What do you want of me? " Phil demanded 
 darkly. 
 
 " Nothing except that you won't make an ass 
 of yourself," retorted Mr. Biggamore. Then from 
 his height on the front steps, he began to nod and 
 grin and wink and to jerk his thumb over his 
 shoulder in the most expressive, if inelegant way. 
 
 And after the little gentleman had prolonged 
 this pantomime to unreasonable lengths, it seemed 
 to dawn on Phil that he was requested to step 
 inside. 
 
 " Yes, come on in ! " chirped Mr. Biggamore. 
 " She says she '11 see you again." 
 
 Phil, with a lowering brow, came up the steps. 
 " Look here, Uncle Phil," he growled savagely, " I 
 don't know what you 've told Corrie, but I wish you 
 to know that it won't do any good. You 're wasting 
 your breath trying to make her give me up. She 
 won't, and I'll tell you why: Because I won't let 
 her!" 
 
 "Oh, Great Scott!" exclaimed Mr. Biggamore. 
 
 "Why oh, now!" He darted to the drawing- 
 
 477
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 room door. " I 'm choking yes, I do believe 
 Corrie, where can I get a glass of water? Oh, to be 
 sure. Oh, yes, in the dining room, of course ! " And 
 dashing away, Mr. Biggamore effaced himself tact 
 fully, only stopping at the end of the hall to cry: 
 
 " You go in there, Phil. Miss Dorothy Tollabee 
 wishes to see you ! " 
 
 Phil, standing in the vestibule, glared after him. 
 " I wish to see Corrie," he growled ; " I don't care 
 to see that other girl." 
 
 "Phil oh, Phil!" 
 
 Then he had her in his arms, her cheek against 
 his, and then 
 
 But never mind what then. They were still stand 
 ing there when Mr. Biggamore returned from the 
 dining room. " Oh, excuse me ! " murmured the little 
 gentleman, stealing away ; but they had not heard 
 or seen him. " Why ! " muttered Mr. Biggamore to 
 himself, and blushed rosily as he said it ; "I be 
 lieve now honestly I do I believe he was kissing 
 her, and she was letting him." 
 
 But the little gentleman was wrong in his painful 
 surmise. 
 
 " Phil dear, dear boy ; you need n't look 
 around for that other girl you did n't wish to see. 
 There 's only one Dorothy Tollabee here, and I am 
 she, Phil. I am Dorothy Tollabee. Don't you under 
 stand ? and' I love you so love you love you, 
 Phil and it 's all right now. Have n't you any 
 thing to say to me, Phil, when I tell you I love 
 you?" 
 
 478
 
 THE TABLEAU IN THE DRAWING-ROOM 
 
 She took his dazed face between her hands, and 
 looked up at him. " Don't you dare, Phil? Well, 
 7 do!" 
 
 Then he awoke, and with his arms around her, 
 and with her love of him willing now 
 
 It was thus, if it need be said, that Mr. Big- 
 gamore had seen them. 
 
 But what now? Shall FINIS be written with a 
 curly cue beneath it, and so have done? Or shall 
 the stray threads be gathered up, and the woof be 
 woven into the fuller piece? Enough is as good as 
 a feast, and it is the wise story-teller who knows 
 when and where to stop. But a word or two more 
 now, and then you may clap on your own moral 
 to adorn the finished tale. 
 
 Exit Mr. Stanton, in the first place. It was little 
 Mr. Biggamore who dragged out of that now thor 
 oughly frightened gentleman the admission that he 
 had, indeed, married Miss Maria in the long ago. 
 Mr. Biggamore gave him his alternative to con 
 fess that he was lawfully married to her, or, if the 
 marriage had been a cheat, to repair the cheat by 
 making her now his legal wife. If Mr. Stanton re 
 fused, he had the choice of going to jail; and to 
 back up his threat, Mr. Biggamore wagged the 
 bundle of papers in his face. So Mr. Stanton con 
 fessed. He had been lawfully married in the be 
 ginning; and Mr. Biggamore, worming out of him 
 the alderman's name, and then assuring himself that 
 the alderman had really married the two, gave the 
 
 479
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 agitated Stanwood Geikie twenty-four hours in which 
 to get out of New York. Is it necessary to say 
 that he accepted the terms? 
 
 But about Mrs. Pinchin. No let us say little 
 of the day when Mrs. Pinchin, brought down from 
 her room above, departed from the scene of her 
 glories and of her downfall. She hobbled down the 
 steps on Miss Maria's arm; and a dingy cab drove 
 off with them, Mrs. Pinchin leaning back in grim 
 silence, and Miss Maria, for the last time, turning on 
 the waterworks. Yet let us draw a veil over that; 
 and let us tell only briefly how Corrie offered a home 
 to Miss Maria, which Miss Maria refused. " No, 
 my place is with Judie. I can't stay here with you. 
 I 've got to take care of my sister ; she needs me 
 more than ever now. Of course, if you could take 
 her in, too " 
 
 So the two departed. The big house in West 
 Seventy-fifth Street was closed; and Corrie went 
 away to her happiness a happiness that seemed 
 to be worth all the pain it had cost to bring it to 
 her. And then, one day, a year later, Corrie re 
 turned home at nightfall. 
 
 " Hello, dearest oh, just a moment," said Phil, 
 laughing ; " I 've gone and knocked ashes all 
 over my drawing. Now dare me again, will 
 you?" 
 
 But Corrie had turned away to stare solemnly at 
 the floor. " Phil," she said, after a long pause, " I 
 took Virgie out driving with me to-day." 
 
 "Yes, sweetheart and then what?" 
 480
 
 THE TABLEAU IN THE DRAWING-ROOM 
 
 "A strap broke on the harness, and we got out 
 and walked." 
 
 "Did you? And where did you walk, Corrie? " 
 
 " We took a street car when we were tired walk 
 ing ; and, Phil " 
 
 Phil put down his pipe, and quietly laid a hand 
 on hers. " What is it, Corrie? " 
 
 " Phil, I saw Mrs. Pinchin ! " 
 
 And so she had ; though in the crowded car 
 Mrs. Pinchin and Miss Maria, too, had not seen 
 her. 
 
 They had got on with the crowd at Fourteenth 
 Street, Mrs. Pinchin scowling and grumbling fret 
 fully at Miss Maria, who was trying to help her 
 aboard. 
 
 " Miss Maria had her arms full of bundles," said 
 Corrie. " It looked as if they had been out buying 
 their dinner." 
 
 But when Mrs. Pinchin had lumbered aboard, the 
 crowd of shoppers had filled the car, and there were 
 no seats left. So Mrs. Pinchin had transferred her 
 scowl from Miss Maria to a man sitting near her; 
 and the man burying his face in his newspaper, 
 and affecting not to see that she wished his seat, 
 Mrs. Pinchin had crooked her cane through a strap 
 and clung on, Miss Maria hanging to another 
 strap, and holding out her elbow to support her 
 sister. 
 
 " And then, Phil, Miss Maria dropped one of her 
 bundles. It broke open, and there were a few toma 
 toes in it and one orange. They rolled around 
 81 481
 
 CORRIE WHO? 
 
 under the people's feet, and when the passengers 
 stooped over to help Miss Maria pick them up, I 
 could see Mrs. Pinchin muttering at her. Phil, she 
 was just as shabby and threadbare as why 
 well, an old apple woman. So was Miss Maria, too, 
 of course; but Mrs. Pinchin's cloak and skirt were 
 faded almost green, and when the car lurched and 
 she put out a hand to support herself, I could see 
 her waist. It was an old plum-colored brocade 
 she 'd made me make over for her, long ago, and 
 now it was all worn and mended so much I hardly 
 knew it. 
 
 " But after they 'd picked up the things from the 
 floor, a man got up, and Mrs. Pinchin shoved her 
 self into the vacant seat. She did n't offer to take 
 poor Miss Maria's packages, but sat there with her 
 two hands leaning on her stick, and her jaw set and 
 frowning straight ahead of her. Finally, I could n't 
 stand it any longer, so I told Virgie I had to get 
 out." 
 
 " Humh ! " said Phil, reflectively. 
 
 Corrie dropped her chin into her hand, and stared 
 again across Phil's drawing-table. 
 
 " Phil, I feel as if I could n't stand it any longer, 
 when I think of her." 
 
 "Who? Mrs. Pinchin?" 
 
 " No, Phil. I mean Miss Maria. Don't you think 
 I should give them the same allowance my father 
 made them? Miss Maria tried as much as she could 
 to be kind." 
 
 Phil's hand stole out and laid itself on Corrie's. 
 482
 
 THE TABLEAU IN THE DRAWING-ROOM 
 
 " Dear, you must n't ask me. It 's your money, 
 and you must do with it as you think best. But, 
 Corrie oh! " 
 
 Holding her to him, he looked down into her 
 tearful eyes. 
 
 " Dear little tender-hearted girl ! " he whispered. 
 
 The University Press, Cambridge, U. S. A.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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