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GRADY COUNTY PROGRESS, CAIRO, GEORGIA.
15 WHITE
GEORGE DARK M c CUTCE0N
RAY "WALTERS
coflYMmr.m*
GY DODO, yf£AD
AffO ConPWY
rNOP8IS.
,.1* tho Now Tbrk home of James Brood,
nts son, Frejeric, receives a wireless
from him. .Frederic tolls Lydia Des
mond, his flcncee, that the message an
nounces his lather's marriage, and orders
Mrs. Desmond, the housekeeper and
Lydia's mother, to prepare the house for
an immedlitc home-coming. Brood and
Ills bride arrive. She wins Frederic’s lik
ing pt first meeting. Brood shows dlsliko
and veiled hostility to Ills son, Lydia and
Mrs. Brood mot In the jade-room, where
Lydia works as Brood's secretary. Mrs.
Brood Is startled by the appearance of
llanjati, Brood's Hindu servant. She
makes changes In the household and gains
her husband's consent to send Mrs. Des
mond and Lydia nway. She fascinates
Frederic. She begins to fear'Ranjab In
Ills uncanny appearances and disappear
ances, and Frederic, remembering hls
fftthor’s Bust Indian stories and firm be
lief in magic, fears unknown evil. Ran-
Jab performs feats of magio for .Dawes
and Riggs. Frederic’s father, Jenlcfus, un
justly orders hls son from tho dinner table
as drunk. Brood tells the story of Ran
jab s life to hls guests. "He killed a wom
an 1 who was unfaithful to him. Yvonno
plays with Frederic's Infatuation for her.
Her husband warns her that the thing
must, not go on.: She tells him that ho
■till loves hla dead- wife, whom he drove
from hls home, through her, Yvonne.
Yvonne plays with:.Brood, Frederic and
Lydia as with figures on a chess board.
Brood, madly JeaJius, tells Lydia that
Frederic is not Mb son, and that he has
brought him up'to-kill hls happiness at
S the- proper, time with ■ this knowledge,
redorlc takes -Lydia home through a
eavy storm and spends the night at her
■ mother's house.
CHAPTER XII—Continued,
"She was jealous. She admitted it,
dear. If I don’t mind, why should you
Incur—”
“Do you really believe she—she
loves the governor enough to be as
jealous at all that?” he exclaimed, a
curious gleam In his eyes—an expres
sion she did not like.
“Of course I think so,” she cried
emphatically. “What a question 1 Have
you any reason to suspect that she
does not love your father?”
“No—certainly not,” he said In some
confusion. Then, after a moment:
“Are you quite sure this headache of
yours is real, Lyddy? Isn't It an ex
cuse to stay away from—from Yvonne,
after what happened last night? Be
honest, dear.”
She was silent for a long time,
weighing her answer. Was It best
to be honest with him?
“I confess that It has something to
do with it,” she admitted. Lydia could
not be anything but truthful.
“I thought so. It’s—it’s a rotten
shame, Lyddy. That's why I want to
talk to her. I want to reason with her.
It’s all so perfectly silly, this misun
derstanding. You’ve just got to go on
as you were before, Lyddy—just as If
it hadn’t happened. It—" '
“I shall complete the work for your
father, Freddy,” she said quietly. “Two
or three days more will see the end.
After that, neither my services nor
my presence will be required over
there.”
“You don’t mean to say—” he began,
unbelievingly.
“I can think of them just as well
here as anywhere else. No; I sha’n’t
annoy Mrs. Brood, Freddy.” It was
on the tip of her tongue to say more,
but she thought better of it.
“They’re going abroad soon,” he
ventured. “At least, that’s father’s
plan. Yvonne Isn’t so keen about it.
She calls this being abroad, you know.
Besides,” he hurried on in hls eager
ness to excuse Yvonne, "she’s tremen
dously fond of you. No end of times
she’s said you were the finest—” Her'
smile—an odd one, such as he had
never seen on her lips before—checked
his eager speech. He bridled. “Of
course, if you don’t choose to believe
me, there’s nothing more, to be said.
She meant it, however.”
“I am sure she said It, Freddy,” she
hastened to. declare. “Will she be
pleased with, bur—our marriage?” It
required a great deal of courage on
her part to utter these words, but she
was determined to bring the true situ
ation home to him.
He did not even hesitate, and there
was conviction in hls voice as he re
plied. “It doesn't matter whether Bhe's
pleased or displeased. We’re pleasing
ourselves, are we not? There's no
one else to consider, dear.”
Her eyes were full upon hls, and
there was wonder in them. “Thank
you—thank you, Freddy,” she cried.
“I—I knew you’d—” The sentence
remained unfinished.
“Has there ever been a doubt in
your mind?” he asked, uneasily, after
a moment. He knew there had been
misgivings and he was ready, in his
Belf-abaBement, to resent them if
given the slightest opening.- Guilt
made him arrogant.
"No,” she answered simply.
The answer was not what he ex
pected. He flushed painfully.
"I—I thought perhaps you’d—you’d
got a notion in your head .that—” He,
too, stopped for want of the right
words to express himself without com
mitting the egregious error of letting
her see that it had been in his
thoughts to accuse her of jealousy.
She waited for a moment, "That I
might have got the notion in my head
you did not love me any longer? Is
that what you started to say?"
“Yes,” he confessed, averting his
eyes.
“I’ve been unhappy at times, Freddy,
but that is all,” she said, steadily.
“You see, I know how honest you
really are. I know it far better than
you know it yourself.”
He stared. "I wonder just how hon
est 1 um,” he muttered. "I wonder
what would happen if— But nothing
can happen. Nothing ever will hap
pen. Thank you, old girl, for saying
what you said Just now. It’s—it’s
bully of you.”
He got up and began pacing the
floor. She leaned back in her chair,
deliberately giving him time to
straighten out hls thoughts tor him
self. Wiser than she knew herself to
be, she held back the warm, loving
words of encouragement, of gratitude,
of belief.
But she was not prepared for the im
petuous appeal that followed. He
threw himself down beside her and
grasped her hands in his. His face
seemed suddenly old and haggard, his
eyes burned like coals of flrg. Then, for
the first time, she had an Inkling of
the great struggle that had been going
on inside of him for weeks and weeks.
"Listen, Lyddy,” he began, nervous
ly, "will you marry me tomorrow? Are
you willing to take the chance that
I'll, be able to support you, to earn
enough—”
“Why, Freddy!” she cried,half start
ing up from the couch. She was dum-
founded.
“Will you? Will you? I mean It,”
he went on, almost arrogantly.
He was very much In earnest, but
alas, the tire, the passion of the im
portunate lover was missing. She
shrank back into the corner of the
couch, staring at him with puzzled
eyes.' Comprehension was slow in ar
riving. As he hurried on with hls
plea she beghn to see clearly; her
sound, level brain grasped the Insig
nificance of this sudden decision on
his part.
“There’s no use waiting, dear. I’ll
never be more capable of earning a
living than I am right now. I can go
Into the office with Brooks any day
and I—I think I can make good. God
knows I can try bard enough. Brooks
sayB he’s got a place there for me In
the bond department. It won’t be
much at first, but I can work into a
pretty good—what’s the rilatter? Don’t
you think I can do it? Have you no
faith in me? Are you afraid to take
a chance?”
She had smiled sadly—It seemed to
him reprovingly. Hls cheek flushed,
“What has put all this into your
head, Freddy, dear?” she asked
shrewdly.
His eyeB wavered. “I can’t go on
living as I have been for the past few
months. I’ve just got to end it, Lyddy,
You don’t understand—you can’t, and
“Will You Marry Me Tomorrow?"
there isn’t any use in trying to explain
the—”
“I think I do understand, dear,” she
said, quietly, laying her hand on hls:
“I understand so completely that there
Isn’t any use in your trying to explain.
But don’t you think you are a bit cow
ardly?”
“Cowardly?” he gasped, and then
the blood-rushed to hls. face.
“Ib It quite fair to me—or to your
self?” He was silent. She waited for
a moment and then went on reso
lutely. “I know just what it is that
you are afraid of, Freddy. I shall
marry you, of course. I love you more
than anything else in all the world.
But are you quite fair in asking me
to marry you while you are still afraid,
dear?”
“Before God, I lo've no one else but
you," he cried,- earnestly. “I know
what it is you are thinking and I—I
don’t blame you. But I want you now—
good God, you don’t know how much
r need you now. I want to begin a
uew life with you. I- want to feel
that you are with me—just you—
strong and brave and enduring. I am
adrift. I need you."
“If you Insist, I will marry you to
morrow, but you cannot—you will not'
ask It of me, will you?"
"But you know I love you," he cried.
"There isn’t any doubt in your mind;
Lyddy. There Is no one else, I tell
you."
"I think I am just beginning to un
derstand men,” she remarked enig
matically.
He looked up sharply. “And to won
der why they call women the weaker
sex, eh?"
“Yes,” she said so Berlously that the
wry smile died on his lips. “I don’t
believe there are many women who
would nslt a man to be sorry for them.
That’s really what all this amounts
to,, isn’t It, Freddy?"
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, wonder-
in gly.
“You are a strong, self-willed, chiv
alrous man, and yet you think nothing
of asking a woman to protect you
against yourself. You are afraid to
stand alone. Wait. Five minutes—
yeB, one minute before you asked it
of me, Freddy dear, you were floun
dering in the darkness, uncertain
which way to turn. You were afraid
of the things you could not see. You
looked for some place In which to hide.
The flaBh of light revealed a haven of
refuge. So you asked me to—to marry
you tomorrow.” All through this in
dictment she had held .hls hand
clasped tightly in both of hers. He
was looking at her with a frank ac
knowledgement growing In hls eyes.
"Are you ashamed of me, Lyddy?”
he asked. It was confession.
“No,” she said, meeting hls gaze
steadily. “I am a little disappointed,
that’s all. It Is you whQ are ashamed.”
“I am,” said he, simply. "It wasn't
fair.”
"Love will endure. I am content to
wait,” she said, with a wistful smile.
“You will be my wife no matter
what happens? You won’t let this
make any difference?"
“You are not angry with me?"
“Angry? Why should I be angry
with you, Lyddy? For shaking some
sense Into me? For seeing through
me with that wonderful, far-sighted
brain of yours? Why, I could go down
on my knees to you. I could—”
He clasped her In his arms and held
her close. “You dear, dear Lyddy!”
Neither spoke for many minutes. It
was she who broke the silence.
“You must promise one thing, Fred
eric. For my sake, avoid a quarrel
with your father. I could not bear
that. You. will promise, dear? You
must.”,
Hls jaw was set. “I don’t Intend to
quarrel with him, but If I am to re
main In hls house there has got to
be—”
"Promise me you will wait. He is
going away in a couple of weeks.
When he returns—later on—next
fall—”
"Oh, if it really distresses you,
Lyddy, I’ll—"
"It does distress me. I want your
promise.”
"I’ll do my part," he said, resigned
ly. “And next fall will see us mar
ried, so—”
The telephone bell in the hall, was
ringing. Frederia released Lydia's
hand and sat up rather stiffly, as one
who suddenly suspects that he Is be
ing spied upon. The significance of
the movement did not' escape Lydia.
She laughed mirthlessly.
“I will see who It is,” she said, and
arose. Two red spots appeared In hls
cheeks. Then It was that she realized
he had been waiting all along, for the
bell to ring; be had been expecting a
summons.
“If It’s for-me, please say—er—say
I'll—” he began, somewhat disjoint-
edly, but she interrupted him.
“Will you stay here for luncheon
Frederic? And this afternoon we will
go to— Oh, 1b there a concert or a
recital—” •
“Yes, I’ll stay If you’ll let me,”
he said, wistfully. “We’ll find some
thing to doi”
She went to the telephone. He
heard the polite greetings, the polite
assurances that she had not taken
cold, two or three laughing rejoinders
to what must have been amusing com
ments on the storm and its effect on
timid creatures, and then:
"Yes, Mrs. Brood, I will call him to
the ’phone.”
CHAPTER XIII.
Two Women.
Frederic had the feeling that he
slunk to the telephone. The girl
handed the receiver to him and he
met her confident, untroubled gaze for
a second. Instead of returning to the
sitting-room where she could have
heard everything that he said, she
went into her own room down the hall
and closed the door. He was not con
scious of any 'intention to temporize,
but it was significant that he did not
speak - until the door closed behind
her. Afterwards he realized and was
ashamed.
Almost the first words that Yvonne
uttered were of a nature to puzzle
and irritate him, .although they bore
directly upon hlB own previously
formed resolution. Her voice, husky
and low, seemed strangely plaintive
and lifeless to him.
“Have you and Lydia made any
plans for the afternoon?” she inquired
Hq made haste to declare their inten
tion to'attend a concert. “I am glad
you are going to do that,” she went on,
“You will stay for luncheon with
Lydia?"
“Yes. She’s trying to pick up that
thing of Feverelli’s—the one we heard
laBt night.” There was silence at the
other end of the -wire. “Are you
there?”
■ "Yes.”
"I will be home for dinner, of course.
You—you don’t need me for anything,
do you?”
— |
“No," she said. Then, witli a low
laugh: "You may bo excused for tho
day; my son. ‘Your father and I have
been discussing tho trip abroad.”
"I thought you—you were opposed
to going."
“I've changed iny nilnd. As a mat
ter of fact, I’vo changed my hoart."
"You speak In ^riddles.” •
She was silent for a j long time.
“Frederic, I want you to 1 do something
for me. Will you try to convince
Lydia that I meant no- offense last
night when I—’*
“She understands all that perfectly,
Yvonne.” . ,
No, Bhe doesn't, A woman wouldn’t
understand.”
"In what way?"
There wob a pause. “No woman
likes to be regarded as ti fool,”, sho
Bant at Inst, apparently after careful
reflection. “Oh, yes; there is some-
"You and I?" Ho Asked, After a Mo
ment.
thing else. We are dining out this
evening."
“You and I?” he asked after a mo
ment.
"Certainly not Your father and I.
I was about to suggest that you dine
with Lydia—or better still, ask her
over here to share your dinner with
you.” .
He was scowling. "Where are you
going?"
"Going? Oh, dining. I see. Well,”
slowly, deliberately, “we thought it
would be great fun to dine alone at
Delmqnlco’s and see a play after
ward.".
"What play are you going to see?' 1
he cut in. She mentioned a Belasco
production. “Well, I hope you enjoy
it, Yvonne. By the way, how is the
governor today? In a good humor?"
There was no response. He waited
for a moment and then called out:
“Are you there?”
“Good-by,” came back over the wire.
He started as if she had given him a
slap in the face. Her voice was cold
and forbidding.
When Lydia rejoined him In the sit
ting-room he was standing at the win
dow, staring across the courtyard far
below.
Are you going?” she asked, steadily.
He turned toward her, conscious of
the telltale scowl that was passing
from hls brow. It did not occur to
him to resent her abrupt, uncompro
mising question. As a matter of fact,
it seemed quite natural that she should
put the question in just that way,
flatly, incisively. He considered him
self, in a way, to be on trial.
“No, I’m not,” he replied. “You did
not expect me to forget, did you?” He
was uncomfortable under her honest,
inquiring gaze. A sullen anger against
himself took possession of him. He
despised himself for the feeling of
loneliness and homesickness that sud
denly came over him.
“I thought—” she began, and then
her brow cleared. “I have been look
ing up the recitals in the morning
paper. The same orchestra you heard
'last night is to appear again today
at—-”
“We will go there, Lydia,” he inter
rupted, and at once began to hum the
gay little air that had so Completely
charmed him. '“Try it again, Lyddy.
You'll get it in no time.”
After luncheon, like two happy chil
dren they rushed oft to the concert,
and it was not until they were on their
way home at five o'clock that hls en
thusiasm began to wane. She was
quick to detect the change. He be
came moody, preoccupied; hls part of
the conversation was kept up with an
effort that lacked all the spontaneity
of hlB earlier and more engaging
flights.
Lydia went far back in her calcula
tions and attributed hls mood to the
promise she had exacted in regard to
his attitude toward his-father. It oc
curred to her that he was smarting
under the restraint that hls promise
involved. She realized now, more
than ever before, that there could be
no delay, no faltering on her part.
She would have to see James Brood
at once. She would have to go down
on her knees to him.
“I feel rather guilty, Freddy,” she
said, as they approached the house.
"Mr. Brood will think it strange that
I should plead a headache and yet run
off to a concert and enjoy myself when
he is so eager to finish the journal—
especially as he Is to sail so soon,
I ought to see him, don’t you think
so? Perhaps there is something I
can do tonight that will make up for
the lost time.” She was plainly nerv
ous.
“He’d work you to death If he
thought It would serve hlB purpose,"
said Frederic, gloomily, and back of
that sentence lay the thought that
mado It absolutely Imperative for her
to act without delay.
"I will go In fo* a few minutes,”
she said, at the foot of the steps. "Are
you not coming, too?"
He had stopped. "Not Just now,
Lyddy. I think I’ll run up to Tom's
flat and smoke a pipe with him.
Thanks, old girl, for the happy day
we’ve had. You don’t mind it I leave
you here?"
Her heart gave a great throb of
relief. It was best to have him out of
the way for the time botng.
"Well—so long," he said, diffidently.
"So long, Lyddy.”
“So long,” she repeated, dropping
Into hls manner of speech without
thinking. There waB a smothering
sensation In hls breast.
He looked back os he strode off in
the direction from which they had
come. She was at the top of the steps,
her fingers on the electric button. He
wondered why her face was so white.
He had always thought of It as being
full of color, rich, soft and warm.
Inside tho door, Lydia experienced
a strange sinking of the heart. “Is
Mr. Brood at—" she began, nervously.
A voice at the top of the stairway In
terrupted the question ahe was putting
to the footman.
"Is It you, Lydia? Come up to my
room."
The girl looked up and saw Mrs.
Brood leaning over the banister rail.
She was holding her pink dressing-
gown closely about her throat, os if
It had been hastily thrown about her
shoulders. One bare arm was visible—
completely so.
“I came to see Mr. Brood. Is he—"
“He is busy. Come up to my room,"
repeated Yvonne, somewhat Imperi
ously.
As Lydia. mounted the stairs she
had a fair glimpse of the other’s face.
Always pallid—but of a healthy pal
lor—It was now almost ghastly. Per
haps Is was the light from the window
that caused it, Lydia was not sure,
but a queer, greenish hue overspread
the lovely, smiling face. The UpB were
red, very red—redder, than she had
ever seen them. The girl suddenly re
called the face she had once seen of
a woman who wbb addicted to the
drug habit.
Mrs. Brood met her at tho top of
the stairs. “She was but half-dressed.
Her lovely neck and shoulders were
now almost bare. Her hands were
extended toward the vlBt,tor; the
filmy lace gown hung loose and disre
garded about her slim figure.
“Come in, dear. Shall we have tea?
I have been so lonely. One cannot
read the books they prlfit nowadays.
Such stupid things, al—e?"
She threw an arm about the tall
girl and Lydia was surprised to find
that It was warm and full of a gentle
strength. She felt her flesh tingle
with the thrill of contact. Yes, it
must have been the light from the
window, for Yvonne’a face was now
aglow with the Iridescence that was
so peculiarly her own.
A door closed softly on the floor
above them. Mrs. Brood glanced over
her shoulder and upward. Her arm
tightened perceptibly about Lydia’s
waist.
"It was Ranjab,” said the girl, and
Instantly was filled with amazement.
She had not seen the Hindu, had not
even been thinking of him, and yet
she was Impelled by some mysterious
intelligence to give utterance to a
statement In which there was convic
tion, not conjecture.
"Did you see him?" asked the other,
looking at her sharply.
“No,” admitted Lydia, still amazed.
“I don’t know why I said that.”
Mrs. Brood closed her boudoir door
behind them. For an Instant she stood
staring at the knob as if expecting to
see It turn—
“I know,” she said, “I know why
you -said it. Because it was Ranjab.”
She shivered slightly. “I am afraid
of that man, Lydia. He seems to be
watching me all of the time. Day and
night his eyes seem to be upon me.”
“Why'should he be watching you?"
asked Lydia, bluntly.
Yvonne did not notice the question.
“Even when I am asleep in my bed,
in the dead hour of night, he is look
ing at me. I can feel it, though asleep.
Oh, It Ib not a dream, for my dreams
are of something or someone elBe—
never of him. And yet he Is there
looking at me. It—It is uncanny.”
“An obsession," remarked Lydia,
quietly. “He never struck me as es
pecially omnipresent.”
“Didn't you feel him a moment
ago?” demanded Yvonne, Irritably,
The other hesitated, reflecting,
suppose it must have been something
like -that.” They were still facing the
door, standing close together. “Why
do you feel that he is watching you?'
“I don’t know. I Just feel it, that’i
all. Day and night. He can read my
thoughts, Lydia, as he Would read a
book. Isn’t—isn’t it disgusting?” Her
laugh was spiritless, obviously arti
ficial.
“I shouldn't object to hls reading
my thoughts,” said Lydia.
"Ah, but you are Lydia. It’s differ
ent. I have thoughts sometimes, - my
dear, that would not—but there! Let
us speak of more agreeable things.
Sit down here beside-me. No tea?
A cigarette, then. No? Do you for
give me for what I said to you last
night?” she asked, sitting down beside
the girl on the chaise longue.
“It was so absurd, Mrs. Brood, that
I have scarcely given It a moment’s
thought. Of course I was hurt at the
time. It was so unjust to Mr. Brood.
It was—'
“It Is like you to say that," cried
Yvonne. "You are splendid, Lydia,
Will you believe me when I tell you
that I love you? That I love you very
dearly, very tenderly?”
Lydia looked at her In some doubt
and not without misgivtnge. "I wfcaulrt
like to bollevo it," she Bald, noncom
mittally.
"Ah, but you doubt it. I boo. Well,
I do not blame you. I have given you
much pain, much distress. When I
am far away you will bo glad—you
will be happy. Is not that so?"
“But you are coming back," said
Lydia, with a frank smtlo, not mount
to bo' unfriendly.
Yvonno’s face clouded. "Oh, yes, I
shall come back, why not? Is tbla
not my homo?”
"You mny cnll It your home, Mrs.
Brood," said Lydia, “but are you quite
sure your thoughts always abide here?
mean In tho United States, of
course."
Yvonne had looked up at her quick
ly. "Oh, I see. No, I shall never bo
American.” Then she abruptly
changed the subject. “You have had a
nice day with Frederic? You havo
been happy, both of you?”
"Yes—very happy, Mrs. Brood," said
tho girl, simply.
I am glad. You must always bo
happy, you two. It Is my greatost
wish.”
Lydia hesitated for a moment.
Frederic asked me to be hls wife—
tomorrow,” sho said, and her heart be
gan to thump queerly. She felt that
she was approaching a crisis of some
Bort.
"Tomorrow?" fell from Yvonne’s
lips. The word was drawn out as It
In one long breath. Then, to Lydia’s
astonishment, an extraordinary change
came over tho speaker. "Yes, yes, it
should be—It must be tomorrow. Poor
boy—poor, poor boy! You will marry,
yes, and go away nt once, al—o?" Her
voice was almost shrill in Its Intensity,
her eyes were wide and eager and—
anxious.
"I— Oh, Mrs. Brood, Is it for the
best?" cried Lydia. "Is it the best
thing for Frederic to do? I—I feared
you might object. I am sure hls father,
will refuse permission—’’
"But you love each other—that is
enough. Why aBlc the consent of any
one? Yes, yes, It Is for the best. I
know—oh, you cannot realize how well
I know. You must not hesitate.” The
woman was trembling In her eager
ness. Lydia’s astonishment gave way
to perplexity.
“What do you mean? Why are you
so Berlous—so Intent on this—”
"Frederic has no money," pursued,
Yvonne, as if she had not heard
Lydia's words. "But that must not
deter you. It must not stand In the
way. I shall find a way, yes, I shall
find a way. I—"
"Do you mean that you would pro
vide for him—for us?” exclaimed
Lydia.
“There is a way, there is a way,"
said the other, fixing her eyes appeal
ingly on the girl’s face, to which tbe
flush of anger was slowly mounting;
“Hls father will not help Him—if
that is what you are counting upon,
Mrs. Brood," said the girl coldly.
“I know. He will not help him,
no.”
Lydia started. "What do you knoyf
about—what has Mr. Brood said to
you?" Her heart was cold with ap-.
lii
Shall Never Be an American.*
prehension. “Why are you going away
next week? What has happened?”
Brood’s wife was regarding her
with narrowing eyes. “Oh, I see -now.
You think that my husband suspocta
that Frederic Is too deeply Interested
In hls beautiful stepmother, is that
not so? ’Poof! It has nothing to do
with it.” Her eyes were sullen, full
of resentment now. She waB collect
ing herself.
The girl’s eyes expressed the disdaiq
that suddenly took the place of appro*
henslon In her thoughts.. A sharp re
tort leaped to her lips, but she sup
pressed It.
“Mr. Brood does not like Frederic,"'
she said Instead, and could have cut
out her tongue the" instant the word*
were uttered. Yvonne’s eyes were glitj
terlng with a light that she had never
seen in them before. Afterwards sho
described it to herself as baleful.
“So! He has spoken ill—evil—ot
hls son to you?” she said, almost In m
monotone. “He has hated him for
years—Is not that so? I am not tho
original cause, al—e? It began long
ago—long, long ago?”
"Oh, I beg of you, Mrs. Brood—■*
began Lydia, shrinking back in dis
may.
“You are free to speak your thought®
to me. I shall not be offended. Whal
has he said to you about Fredorlo-J
and me?"
(TO BE CONTINUED,)