She looked around at their faces, old and tired and over-worked; yet they were in a way enjoying this dull service. Gloria puzzled over it and could not understand. There must be something unseen behind it all.
The old minister who preached was closely confined to his notes and did not get her attention at all. He was to her merely a part of the whole, like the organ and the carpet and the old bell that rang so hard after they were seated in the pew that it shook the floor and the seats and seemed threatening momentarily to descend and bring the bell tower with it. Gloria had no feeling of God being there or of anything holy about the place, except when she looked at her father's face, and then she wished she knew what it was that reached down so deep into her father's life and was connected with this old building. She decided that it must be the memory of his mother. Such a mother! Her grandmother! She thought she would like to be like that grandmother if she only could.
That afternoon they drove over to call on the uncle's family, and Gloria had a sudden setback in her enthusiasm for searching out relatives. Uncle George came out to the car to meet them and seemed exceedingly reserved. He didn't smile at all at first until Gloria was introduced, her father stating that she had wanted to come and get acquainted with her relatives.
The uncle turned a quick searching glance on her face, took in all its loveliness, questioned with his eyes its artless smile of eagerness, and finally warmed under its brightness into something like geniality.
"She looks like Mother, doesn't she?" he said unexpectedly, and the pleased color came into the girl's face.
"Oh, that's nice!" said Gloria, "I'd like to be like her! I've been hearing such wonderful things about her, only I'm afraid I never could come up to her standards!"
"She was a great little woman!" said Uncle George with growing approval in his eyes. "You'd be doing well to be like her! But I thought all city girls these days were highflyers." His eyes searched his new niece with surprise.
Gloria laughed. "What are highflyers?" she asked with a twinkle in her eyes.
Her uncle twinkled back and said with a half grin, "Well, if you don't know, I won't tell you. I wouldn't want to spoil you; you're too much like Mother! But come on, get out and come in the house. Come see how you like your aunt and cousin."
"Cousin?" said Gloria's father, "aren't they all at home? I hoped we'd catch the whole family, coming on Sunday."
"No," said Uncle George, "the boys are both away out west for good, I'm afraid. Only Joan is home, and she goes back to Portland to her school to-morrow. She teaches there now."
"It sounds as if she were probably more like Grandmother Sutherland than I am," said Gloria wistfully as she got out of the car and looked about her at the well-kept house and yard.
Uncle George gave a grim grin. "No," he said with a half sigh, "Joan's more like her mother's side. She never looked like Mother. The youngest boy is the only Sutherland in my flock. Barney. He's out in Chicago now–got a good job. He's not likely to come back unless he gets transferred east. Albert is out in Wisconsin farming. He married a western girl, and I guess he's anchored for life. But he's like his mother, too. Well, come on in."
In the house, the welcome was unsmiling and almost haughty. Aunt Miranda Sutherland was a woman with a prim mouth and gimlet eyes. Gloria could see at the first glance that she disapproved of her at sight, and Joan was only a slightly more modern edition of her mother. She seemed a good deal older than Gloria. They shook hands stiffly and sat down as far from the chair they had given Gloria as the limits of the big parlor would allow. For a few minutes, they said little, leaving the conversation entirely to the two brothers, but when Gloria began to say how charmingly their house was located and to rave over the view, the cousin turned and looked her over critically, and the aunt said with a sharp tinge to her voice, "How is it you're off up here? The last I heard of you, you were going to be married. We got your cards. Wasn't it this week?"
The color suddenly drained out of Gloria's sweet face and pain came into her eyes. "Yes–I was–" she began haltingly. It hadn't occurred to her that she would meet with that tragic matter up here so far out of her world. It stabbed through her heart like a knife and twisted cruelly. What to answer, how to explain the terrible thing without making it more tragic? It seemed as if there were no words to go on. But her father had heard and answered for her.
"Gloria has been through a very sorrowful time," he said gravely. "Her fiance is dead. That was why I brought her up here, to get her away from everything for a little while."
An embarrassed instant of silence fell upon the room, and Gloria's eyes were down, but bravely she lifted them and set a little wan, wistful smile out toward her unknown relatives.
"Oh!" said the aunt obviously curious. "I wondered. We saw a notice in a New York paper. Joan brought it home from Portland. It was the same name as that on the invitation, but I thought it might be just a coincidence."
"No," said Gloria quietly, "it wasn't just a coincidence." There was infinite sadness in her tone, but it did not invite further questioning.
Her aunt looked at her avidly for a moment, obviously expecting more details, but Gloria remained silent. "Well, that certainly was too bad!" she said at last, half grudgingly. "There's many a slip, of course, but we aren't always looking for it to happen to folks we know. Did you know the girl he was with when it happened?"
Suddenly Gloria's father arose and stepped forward, his hat in his hand, his voice clear and a bit haughty. "Well, I guess we must be going," he said, offering his hand to his sister-in-law and then to his niece. "It's quite a drive back to Afton, and Mrs. Weatherby is expecting us both to tea. Also, I'm rather expecting a business telegram, which may call me back home suddenly. I'm glad to have seen you. It's nice to know you're so pleasantly located. The view certainly is lovely from here. You must enjoy it a lot."
He talked incessantly, keeping between Gloria and her aunt and giving her no opportunity to reply to the question that had been asked her. Gloria managed to keep a semblance of a smile on her face until they were in the car and started off again. She even had the grace–or the courage–to say graciously as they drove away, "Can't you drive over to Afton and see us while we are there? We're going to stay a few days yet I think."
Joan thanked her ungraciously and said, "I don't think it'll be possible. I go back to Portland in the morning, and Mother doesn't go out much anymore."
Gloria, once out of their sight, settled back in the car with a stricken look.
Her father gave her a troubled glance. Finally, he said, "I wouldn't mind so much what she said. I don't think they really meant to be unkind. They're just curious and perhaps a little hurt that we didn't write and explain, as they are relatives. I think that has been their grievance all along. They think we feel ourselves above them."
"No, I don't mind so much about them," said Gloria with a sorrowful little sigh. "I was just thinking, all the world knows my disgrace. I didn't realize anybody would know it outside of Roselands."
"Why do you call it your disgrace? You had nothing to do with shooting Stan."
"No," sighed Gloria again, "but it is a disgrace to have been connected with a man who died in that way. You know that, Dad."
"I always knew he wasn't worthy of you," said her father vehemently.
"After all, Dad, what have I done that should make me worth so much? I've been just a good-for-nothing parasite!" said the girl. "When I hear about Grandmother Sutherland and all that she did, I'm ashamed."
"Times have changed," said her father sharply. "You were not required to do so much. Your circumstances were different. If you were back in those times and had the same necessity upon you, I'll warrant you would do as well."
"I