himself. “Well, no––not exactly.”

“Oh, you didn’t?” she said tartly. “Well, what did you do?”

“Mirabelle,” said her brother, “don’t you think that’s––just a little mite personal?”

“Well––I should hope so. I meant it to be. After the way Henry’s acted, he don’t deserve one bit of sympathy, or one dollar from anybody. And if I’ve got anything to say, he won’t get it, either.”

Mr. Starkweather’s round, fat face, wore an expression which his sister hadn’t seen before. He stood up, and held the back of his chair for support. “Mirabelle, you haven’t got a word 45 to say about it. I’ve made some changes in my will, but it’s nobody’s damned business outside of mine.”

She reached for her handkerchief. “John! To think that you’d swear––at me––”

He wet his lips. “I didn’t swear at you, but it’s a holy wonder I don’t. I’ve stood this just about as long as I’m goin’ to. Henry’s my own flesh and blood. And furthermore he wouldn’t waste my money a minute quicker’n you would. He’d do a damn sight better with it. He’d have a good time with it, and make everybody in the neighbourhood happy, and you’d burn it up in one of your confounded reform clubs. Well, all I’ve got’s a sister and a nephew, so I guess the money’s goin’ to be wasted anyhow. But one way’s as good’s another, and Henry’s goin’ to get a fair break, and don’t you forget it.” He took a glass of water from the table, and spilled half of it. “Don’t you forget it.”

At last, she had perception. “John, you don’t know what you’re saying! What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

He was swallowing repeatedly. “Yes, I am. Sick of the whole thing.” His eyes, and the 46 hue of his cheeks, genuinely alarmed her; she went to him, but he avoided her. “No, I don’t want anything except to be let alone.... Is the car out there?”

“But John––listen to me––”

He waved her off. “I listened to you the day Henry came home, Mirabelle. That’s enough to last me quite some time. I ain’t forgot a word you said––not a word. Where’s my hat?” He rushed past her, and out of the house, and left her gaping after him.

Half an hour later, young Mr. Standish telephoned to her.

“Miss Starkweather?... Your brother isn’t feeling any too well, and I’ve just sent him home. He looks to me as if he’s in pretty bad shape. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to have your doctor there, seems to me.”

She had the doctor there, and before the night was over, there was another doctor in consultation. There were also two nurses. And to both doctors, both nurses and Mirabelle, Mr. Starkweather, who knew his destiny, whispered the same message at intervals of fifteen minutes. “Don’t have Henry come back––don’t have 47 Henry come back––no sense his comin’ back ’till August. Tell him I said so. Tell him I want him to stay over there––’till August.”

And then, in the cool, fresh morning, Mr. Starkweather, who hadn’t stirred a muscle for several hours, suddenly tried to sit up.

“Postman!” said Mr. Starkweather, with much difficulty.

He was waiting for a letter from Henry, and when they put it into his hands, he smiled and was content. He hadn’t the strength to open it, and he wouldn’t let anyone else touch it; he was satisfied to know that Henry had written. And after that, there was nothing worth waiting for.