Aunt Frances stayed until after the New Year. But before she went she

sounded Aunt Isabelle.

"Has Mary said anything to you about Porter Bigelow?"

"About Porter?"

"Yes," impatiently, "about marrying him. Anybody can see that he's

dead in love with her, Isabelle."

"I don't think Mary wants to marry anybody. She's an independent

little creature. She should have been the boy, Frances."

"I wish to heaven she had," Aunt Frances' tone was fervent. "I can't

see any future for Barry, unless he marries Leila. If he were not so

irresponsible, I might do something for him. But Barry is such a

will-o'-the-wisp."

Aunt Isabelle went on with her mending, and Aunt Frances again pounced

upon her.

"And it isn't just that he is irresponsible. He's---- Did you notice

on Christmas Day, Isabelle--that after dinner he wasn't himself?"

Aunt Isabelle had noticed. And it was not the first time. Her quick

eyes had seen things which Mary had thought were hidden. She had not

needed ears to tell the secret which was being kept from her in that

house.

Yet her sense of loyalty sealed her lips. She would not tell Frances

anything. They were dear children.

"He's just a boy, Frances," she said, deprecatingly, "and I am sorry

that General Dick put temptation in his way."

"Don't blame the General. If Barry's weak, no one can make him strong

but himself. I wish he had some of Porter Bigelow's steadiness. Mary

won't look at Porter, and he's dead in love with her."

"Perhaps in time she may."

"Mary's like her father," Aunt Frances said shortly. "John Ballard

might have been rich when he died, if he hadn't been such a dreamer.

Mary calls herself practical--but her head is full of moonshine."

Aunt Frances made this arraignment with an uncomfortable memory of a

conversation with Mary the day before. They had been shopping, and had

lunched together at a popular tea room. It was while they sat in their

secluded corner that Aunt Frances had introduced in a roundabout way

the topic which obsessed her.

"I am glad that Constance is so happy, Mary."

"She ought to be," Mary responded; "it's her honeymoon."

"If you would follow her example and marry Porter Bigelow, my mind

would be at rest."

"But I don't want to marry Porter, Aunt Frances. I don't want to marry

anybody."

Aunt Frances raised her gold lorgnette, "If you don't marry," she

demanded, "how do you expect to live?"




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