"Still, my dear, still it's love," said the major as he looked at her

thoughtfully and dropped the banter that had been in his voice since she

had come in. "A boy's? Perhaps, but I think not. You'll see! It's a call,

a call that must be answered some time, child--and a mystery." For a

moment the major sat and looked deep into the gray eyes raised to his in

quick responsiveness to the change in his mood. "Don't trifle with love,

girl, it's God Almighty's dower to a woman. It's hers; though she

pays a bitter price for it. It's a wonder and a worker of wonders. It has

all come home to me to-day and I think you will understand when I tell

you about--"

"Major," interrupted Tempie with a broad grin on her black face, "Mr.

Dave, he done telephoned fer you ter keep Miss Phoebe till he gits here.

He says he'll hold you and me 'sponsible, sir."

A quick flush rose to Phoebe's cheeks and she laughed as she collected

her notebook and pinned down her veil all at the same tune with a view to

instant flight. She gave neither the major nor Tempie time for

remonstrance.

"Good-by!" she called from the hall. "I only came in to tell Mrs. Matilda

that I would meet her at the Cantrell tea at five-fifteen and afterward

we could make that visit together. The muffins were divine!"

"Tempie," remarked the major as he looked up at her over the devastated

table with an imperturbable smile, "I have decided positively that women

are just half-breed angels with devil markings all over their

dispositions."

And having received which admonition with the deepest respect, Tempie

immediately fell into a perfect whirlwind of guest preparations which

involved the pompous Jefferson, her husband, and the meek Jane, her

daughter. The major issued her numberless, perfectly impossible but

solicitous orders and then retired to his library chair with his mind at

ease and his books at hand.

And it was in the violet flamed dusk as he sat with his immortal friends

ranged around that Mrs. Matilda brought the treasure home to him. She was

a very lovely thing, a fragrant flower of a woman with the tender shyness

of a child in her manner as she laid her hands in his outheld to her with

his courtly old-world grace.

"My dear, my dear," he said as he drew her near to him, "here's a welcome

that's been ready for you twenty years, you slip of a girl you, with your

mother's eyes. Did you think you could get away from Matilda and me when

we've been waiting for you all this time?"

"I may have thought so, but when I saw her I knew I couldn't; didn't want

to even," she answered him in a low voice that hinted of close-lying

tears.




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