would open at the right page."

"Your father was often lonely?"

"Yes. After mother's death. And he worked too hard, and things went
wrong with his business. I used to slip up to his bedroom sometimes in
the last days, and there he'd be with the old Bible on his knee, and
mother's picture in his hand." Mary's eyes were wet.

"He loved your mother and missed her."

"It was more than that. He was afraid of the future for Constance and
me. He was afraid of the future for--Barry----"

Susan Jenks, carrying a mahogany tray on which was a slender silver
coffee-pot flanked by a dish of cheese and toasted biscuit, asked as
she went through the room: "Shall I save any dinner for Mr. Barry?"

"He'll be here," Mary said. "Porter Bigelow is taking us to the
theater, and Barry's to make the fourth."

Barry was often late, but to-night it was half-past seven when he came
rushing in.

"I don't want anything to eat," he said, stopping at the door of the
dining-room where Mary and Aunt Isabelle still waited. "I had tea
down-town with General Dick and Leila's crowd. And we danced. There
was a girl from New York, and she was a little queen."

Mary smiled at him. To Aunt Isabella's quick eyes it seemed to be a