Instead of the Thorn. Clara Louise Burnham

say that. She'll settle down under the responsibilities of life. Do you remember my cousin Bertram King?"

      "Oh, yes. The long-legged, light-haired fellow that aids and abets my brother in overworking."

      "That's the very one. I must tell you that he's heart and soul in love with Linda."

      "H'm. I suppose so. I only wish she'd marry him and live out on Sheridan Road somewhere, then I could live with my brother and take care of him winters. He'd get some care then. Are they engaged?"

      "Oh, no. She's just out of school. He hasn't asked her yet."

      "What's the matter with him? Is he the kind with boiled macaroni for a backbone?"

      "No, Bertram's backbone is all right. He wanted to let her get out of school. He has no relations but me. He had to confide in somebody."

      "Well, he'll get all that's coming to him if he marries her." Miss Barry sniffed. "I guess if there was a prize offered for arrogance she'd get it. I speak plain because you're fond of her, and you're aware that you know her much better than I do, so I couldn't set you against her even if I wanted to; and I need somebody to confide in too."

      Mrs. Porter smiled. "You'll change your tune some day. Linda has lots of goods that aren't in the show window."

      Miss Barry nodded. "If she keeps her distance I may change in time. It all depends on that."

      The visitor could picture how in little things the high-spirited, popular girl might have shown tactlessness during the holidays, and created an impression on the taciturn aunt which it would be hard to efface. Words could never do it, she realized, and wisely forbore to say more.

      Dinner was over, and the visitor was just considering that during the process of social dishwashing she could broach the subject of a boarding-place, when Jerry Holt's steed again approached the shingled cottage. Both women discerned him at the same moment.

      "Did you tell Jerry to come back for you? You can't go yet," said Miss Barry.

      "I didn't, but it might be a good plan for him to take me the rounds."

      "What rounds?"

      "Of possible boarding-places."

      Miss Barry did not reply, for she had to answer the knock at the door. There stood Captain Holt, holding a telegram gingerly between his thumb and finger, and his sea-blue eyes gazed straight into Belinda's.

      "I want you should bear up, Belinda," he said kindly. "There ain't no other way." His voice shook a little, and Miss Barry turned pale as she took the sinister envelope.

      Mrs. Porter heard his words, and hastening to her hostess stood beside her as she tore open the telegram. Captain Holt's heavy hand closed the door slowly, with exceeding care, as he shut himself out.

      Mrs. Porter's arm stole around the other woman as she read the message: —

      Mr. Barry died last night. Please come at once.

      Henry Radcliffe.

      Miss Barry's limbs shook under her, and she tottered to a chair.

      Captain Holt sat on the edge of the piazza and bit a blade of grass while he waited.

      In the silence a pall seemed to fall over the little house, broken only by the sharp rending apart of mounting waves against the rocks.

      Mrs. Porter knelt by her friend and held her hands.

      "What can I do for you?" she asked.

      "Look in the desk over in that corner, and find the time-tables in the drawer."

      "I know the Chicago trains, Miss Barry. Let me arrange it all for you. You wish to leave to-night?"

      Miss Barry nodded without speech.

      Mrs. Porter went out on the piazza and sent Jerry to telegraph, telling him to return.

      "Did you know my brother was ill?" asked Belinda, when she returned, still without moving.

      "No. I thought him just overtired."

      The other nodded. "That's the way they do it. Rush madly after money and more money till they go to pieces all of a sudden."

      The bereft sister's eyes were fixed on space, seeing who knows what pictures of the past, when a barefooted boy romped with her over these rocks that held the nest he had given her. Suddenly her far-away look came back, and focused on the pitiful eyes regarding her drawn, pale face.

      "I'm glad you're here," she said simply.

      "And I am so glad," responded the other, her thoughts busy with Linda and Bertram, and longing to fly to them.

      "Will you stay here in my cottage till I come back? I have a little girl that comes every day to help. She cooks pretty well. She'll stay with you."

      "Yes, Miss Barry." It was on the tip of the visitor's tongue to say, "You'll bring Linda back with you," but she restrained the words. This common sorrow would do its work between aunt and niece, she felt sure.

      There was no further inaction. A trunk was packed, and Mrs. Porter accompanied the traveler as far as Portland, spending the night again at the hotel where she had left her belongings; and Miss Barry pursued her sad journey.

      Henry Radcliffe met her at the station in Chicago; and when they were in the motor Miss Barry turned to him with dim eyes.

      "What was the matter with Lambert?"

      His pale face looked excited and sleepless.

      "You haven't seen the papers?"

      "No. My head ached and I didn't read them. What do you mean?" Her voice grew tense.

      "Barry & Co. have gone to pieces."

      "What do I care for that? Lambert! My brother! Tell me of him!"

      "But it carried a lot of innocent ones down in the crash."

      "Oh, my poor brother! What of him, Henry? Tell me. Tell me."

      The young man turned his head away, and his voice grew thick. "He died down in the office."

      "Heart trouble?"

      "Yes. He never told us if he knew he had a weak heart. The shock was terrible."

      The young man took his companion's groping hand.

      "Linda is prostrated. We have had to save her in every way. Poor Harriet! She has had to be a heroine."