unconscious of that quality. Your influence is wonderful with me.... How do you like being an 'Influence'? I have turned flippant, but you know I was serious——" 

 And that letter, in some strange way, had depressed Cecilia. She had wanted the summer to be a quiet one,—one in which she could learn to know a small brother, have ample time to amuse her father,—and—— 

 Well, she was utterly ashamed, but she'd wanted it alone. It was so little of her to wish it so. Marjory had been so good to her. But,—Cecilia had dreamed of quiet evenings with the moon making a glittering path of silver on the Sound.... She'd dreamed of a big, gruff man coming toward her across soft grass.... That, and the scent of roses, pink roses.... Instead the summer would be full of Marjory's friends. Marjory had so many and such gay ones! Dancing, playing cards, motoring,—hunting pleasure with a strained intensity, running foolishly so that boredom should not overtake them.... And she had needed the summer with John. Marjory, her good friend, was not the one to show him things as Cecilia would have him see them. Cecilia sighed. 

 Then a little spasm of pain flickered across her face. The night before was in her mind, when John, with the friends who were visiting him, had grown too joyous. She had heard them come in in the deep night. The sounds had rung clear in the still air. 

 The cars they drove had come crashing through rose bushes, knocking down slender trellises.... With silly laughter, she had heard the men come toward the house. There had been unpleasant words said loudly, as if such utterances were humorous. There had been more silly laughter after them. 

 Cecilia had felt quite sick. She had covered her eyes and made requests of some one's else mother.... Then she had slipped into a negligee and cautiously opened her door. 

 The hall was empty and she went to John's room. She shook as she travelled the long hall, and she hated John's friends with a marvellous hate for one so sweet-natured. She was heart-sick and afraid. John's room was empty. 

 She stood there a moment, steadying herself. There were pictures scattered about the room, which made her understand things more fully. One, on a table near her, showed a pert miss, with tightly curled hair, and a dress of cheap fanciness. 

 "Your own little girl," was written across its corner, and then the little girl's name, "Fanchette LeMain." 

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