Part 22 (1/2)

”No! No!” She put out both hands, pleadingly. ”I don't want anything to do with him! I don't want him to know I'm in New York. Promise me!

Promise!”

Wallace looked down. ”Well,--it isn't my affair,” he said slowly.

Mrs. Colter bustled in, a package swinging from one hand by a holder.

”Oh, excuse me!” she begged, coming short.

Clare ran to her in a panic. ”Oh, go! Go!” she ordered almost fiercely. ”Go home! Don't wait! Hurry!” Then as Mrs. Colter, scared and bewildered, attempted to pa.s.s, ”No! Go 'round! Go 'round!”

”Yes,” faltered the other, dropping and picking up her bundle as Clare shoved her hallward; ”yes.” She fled.

”Close the door!” cried Clare. And as Wallace obeyed, she again went to stand against the panels of the double door. She seemed in a very fever of anxiety. ”Please go now, Wallace,” she begged. ”Please! I'm much obliged to you for coming. It was kind. But if you'll go----”

Her voice broke hysterically.

He glanced at Balcome, and the elder man nodded in acquiescence.

”We'll go,” said Wallace. ”I'm glad to have seen you again.” He moved away, and Balcome went with him. ”But I hoped I could do something for you----”

”There's nothing,”--eagerly. ”If you'll just go.”

”Well, good-by, then.”

”Good-by. Good-by, Mr. Balcome.”

”Good-by,” grumbled Balcome.

Wallace's hand was on the k.n.o.b when a child's voice piped up from beyond the door--a voice ready to tremble into tears, and full of pleading. ”But I want to kiss her,” it cried.

Clare fairly threw herself forward to keep the two men from leaving.

”Wait! Wait!” she implored in a whisper.

”She's busy, I tell you!”--it was Mrs. Colter. ”Now come along.”

Something brushed the outer panels; then, ”Good-by, Aunt Clare!” piped the little voice again.

”Come! Come!” scolded Mrs. Colter.

Now a sound of weeping, and whispers--Mrs. Colter entreating obedience, and making promises; next, a choking final farewell--”Good-by, Aunt Clare!”

”Good-by,” answered Clare, hollowly.

As the weeping grew louder, and the outer door shut, Wallace went toward the bay-window, slowly, as if drawn by a force he could not master. He put a shaking hand to a curtain and moved it aside a s.p.a.ce.

Then leaning, he stared out at the sobbing child descending the steps.

When he turned his face was a dead white. His look questioned Clare in agony. ”Who---- That--that--your niece?” he stammered.

”She's my sister's little girl,” answered Clare, almost glibly. She was recovering her composure, now that Barbara was out of the house.

”A-a-ah!” Wallace took out a handkerchief and wiped at his face. Then without looking at Clare, ”Isn't there something I can do for you?”