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 L ng ^ach 
 Long Beach 2,
 
 THE PROBLEM 
 
 HOPE GLADDEN 
 
 RICHARD G. BADGER 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS 
 BOSTON
 
 Copyright, 1913, by Richard G. Badger 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A.
 
 To My Nieces 
 HELEN AND DOROTHY
 
 SRL6 
 URL 
 
 thee mid this dance 
 Of plastic circumstance, 
 
 This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest; 
 Machinery just meant 
 To give thy soul its bent, 
 
 Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. 
 
 Robert Browning.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I The Surprise 9 
 
 II The Picture's Background. ... 16 
 
 III Mabel's Visit _.,...... 20 
 
 IV Willa's Reception 24 
 
 V The Neighbors 32 
 
 VI The Quilting ,. . 40 
 
 VII Character Revealed 44 
 
 VIII The Delayed Vacation 52 
 
 IX At the Old Home 57 
 
 X The Doctor's Opinion 62 
 
 XI The Visitor 67 
 
 XII New Plans .... 74 
 
 XIII A Joyous Return 80 
 
 XIV New Lessons Taught.,. . ...... 86 
 
 XV The Invitation 93 
 
 XVI Old Memories 99 
 
 XVII Mutual Friends 104 
 
 XVIII At Uncle Dick's 109 
 
 XIX The Angel's Mistake ..,. . 114 
 
 XX Echoes from Canton 119 
 
 XXI Her Cup Runneth Over. . ; . . . . 125 
 
 XXII For All Time 129 
 
 XXIII One Heart and One Mind ... 133
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXIV Welcome News , 138 
 
 XXV The Little Stranger 146 
 
 XXVI Taking Root in New Soil 152 
 
 XXVII Tightening the Heart Strings. 157 
 
 XXVIII The Trio 162 
 
 XXIX Double Honors 170 
 
 XXX In the Race 176 
 
 XXXI Christmas at Grandpa's 183 
 
 XXXII In the Nick of Time 188 
 
 XXXIII Contentment 194 
 
 XXXIV The Discussion 201 
 
 XXXV The Promise 210 
 
 XXXVI Breaking the Seal 215 
 
 XXXVII Heart to Heart 229 
 
 XXXVIII Changes 239 
 
 XXXIX The Picture's Perspective 246
 
 THE PROBLEM
 
 THE PROBLEM 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE SURPRISE 
 
 1 
 
 "%HERE was scarcely a person, place, or 
 thing around the charming village of 
 Woodrow that Dr. Hunt M. Warren 
 did not know and love. It was, there- 
 fore, no wonder that the people of that place loved 
 him; or that Grandma Adams when she fell and 
 broke her wrist, or little Susie Plummer when she 
 had the croup wanted Dr. Warren instead of the 
 young Dr. Ellery who had recently settled there, 
 and had made his brags about feeding Warren's 
 horses on straw before the season was over. 
 
 The people of that little town were a genuine 
 people who recognized and appreciated true worth, 
 and never more so than in their tried and trusted 
 friend who had stood so loyally by them in storm 
 and sunshine. 
 
 One morning, in the latter part of August, Dr. 
 Warren waked, turned over, looked at his watch, 
 and wondered how much longer he might allow 
 himself this luxury. His wondering lasted, how- 
 ever, for scarcely more than a second ; for, almost 
 instantly, he heard the sound of a horse's hoofs on 
 
 9
 
 io THE PROBLEM 
 
 the gravel walk, and soon after a vigorous ring 
 of the door bell. 
 
 Ned Munson was at the door. His mother was 
 ill and needed the Doctor at once. The latter, on 
 seeing Ned's horse standing by the gate, wet with 
 sweat and with the white froth dripping from his 
 mouth, said: 
 
 "All right, Ned. Will come as soon as possi- 
 ble, but you better stand your horse under the 
 shade trees to cool off a bit." 
 
 He then turned to call Si, who slept in a small 
 room off the kitchen, but Si had also heard the bell 
 and was nearly dressed. 
 
 While the Doctor donned the thinnest summer 
 suit he possessed, Si went to the stable to harness 
 Nell, the Doctor's little bay mare that certainly 
 held her own place in the Warren family. 
 
 After hitching the mare into the thills, Si step- 
 ped to the side of the carriage to replace the 
 cushion. It was the man's custom, whenever the 
 carriage came in, to tilt the cushion bottom side up 
 against the dasher in order better to protect it from 
 dust and horse hairs; because, as he said, "It's 
 mighty hard to brush out around them buttons." 
 
 This morning, as he reached for the cushion, 
 his heart almost stood still. The rubber boot that 
 he had left tucked in the pocket in front of the 
 dasher had been removed and carefully spread 
 so as practically to conceal a willow basket hidden 
 beneath its folds, and yet raised a sufficient height 
 to allow the air to pass to the place that needed
 
 THE SURPRISE n 
 
 it most. This was the first time that Si had even 
 glanced at the carriage itself, or rather at the 
 inside of it. He quickly threw the boot aside, and 
 there, enjoying the sweetest sleep, lay a tiny infant 
 about two months old. 
 
 "By crackers!" said Si, under his breath. 
 
 This was an expression peculiar to the man, and 
 one that he always used in times of great surprise, 
 whether of gladness, or sorrow, or just "common 
 surprise," as his mother used to say. 
 
 During this time the Doctor had dressed, drunk 
 the eggnog that his wife had prepared meanwhile, 
 and which often served for his morning meal on 
 occasions like this. As Si had not brought the 
 team around, the Doctor picked up his medicine 
 case, gave Mrs. Warren a parting kiss, told her 
 she had better "trot back to bed for an hour," and 
 then walked out through the shed into the stable. 
 
 Three steps led from one to the other, and as 
 the Doctor went down these, he heard Si's excla- 
 mation and noticed the expression on his face. Af- 
 ter those two words were uttered, the fellow 
 seemed speechless; and, when the Doctor stepped 
 to the carriage, it was his turn to be surprised. 
 For several moments the tall, broadshouldered man 
 stood there, one hand holding his medicine case, 
 the other resting on the dasher. He stared long 
 and hard at the tiny creature. His brain was 
 working on one of life's problems. At last, as 
 though realizing that something must be done, he 
 set the case on the seat, threw the cover aside, and
 
 12 THE PROBLEM 
 
 almost reverently lifted the basket from its rest- 
 ing place. As he did so, the morning light from 
 the doorway shone on the baby's face, and eyes as 
 blue as the heavens looked up into his. The deli- 
 cate eyelids winked again and again, and then the 
 tiny fist was raised and rubbed over those little 
 eyes and the finely shaped nose. A great gap fol- 
 lowed, but not the slightest cry was uttered. The 
 Doctor was about to carry the little stranger into 
 the house when the thought came to him that the 
 shock might be too great for Mrs. Warren unless 
 he prepared her for it. 
 
 After passing the basket to Si, with the words, 
 "Hold it a minute," he walked slowly and thought- 
 fully into the house, wondering how to break the 
 news to his wife. 
 
 The Doctor was a part of her very life. Never 
 had she grown indifferent to his absence, and she 
 was always watching for his return. As she 
 heard his footsteps, she turned from the window, 
 where she sat watching for the carriage to drive 
 away, and one glance at his face told her that 
 something had happened. She had slipped on a 
 dainty pink and white kimona of the finest lawn. 
 Her hair was naturally wavy, and he thought 
 that she had never looked more lovable than she 
 did when she rose to meet him with the words : 
 
 "What, dear?" 
 
 The word, "what" was so full of meaning that 
 it might have covered anything or everything, and 
 the "dear" was so tender whenever it came from
 
 THE SURPRISE 13 
 
 her lips that it seemed to him the angels must hear. 
 
 Laying one hand on each of her shoulders, he 
 said: 
 
 "Can Mother take a surprise this morning?" 
 
 He had called her "Mother" ever since their 
 little Angie was born, even though the child had 
 lived only a few months. Since that time the lit- 
 tle woman had not been strong, but she was brave, 
 and when her husband spoke in those quiet, even 
 tones, she always prepared herself for whatever 
 might come. 
 
 Again, in the same tones, she said: 
 
 "What, dear?" 
 
 "There is a surprise out here. I have something 
 to show you. Will you come out, or shall I bring 
 it in?" 
 
 She looked at him earnestly, and then said: 
 
 "I'll come." 
 
 Taking her arm, the Doctor led her into the 
 stable where Si stood just where he had left him; 
 he did not speak, but simply pointed to the basket. 
 
 Mrs. Warren looked first at the baby, and then 
 at her husband, again and again until, with tears 
 in her eyes, she let go his arm and reached toward 
 the basket for the baby. The child saw her; and, 
 as though catching the "mother look" in her eyes, 
 stretched out her little hands and cooed. As Mrs. 
 Warren lifted her from the basket, something fell. 
 The Doctor stooped to pick up the long, stiff en- 
 velope, which to his surprise was addressed to him- 
 self. Within, he found not only a letter bearing
 
 i 4 THE PROBLEM 
 
 his name, but another smaller envelope, securely 
 sealed, bearing the inscription: "Willa, to be 
 opened on her 2ist birthday." 
 His own letter read: 
 
 "Dear and kind Sir: 
 
 "Through circumstances that I am unable to 
 help, I must either give my child away, or put her 
 in some institution. I cannot seem to do the lat- 
 ter, and if I must do the former, I know of no one 
 to whom I would so willingly 'let her go as to you 
 and Mrs. Warren. I have never seen either of 
 you, but I have heard much of both and of your 
 kind-heartedness. As you would wish your 
 own little girl cared for had she lived, so please 
 care for this one. 
 
 "In case the question is arising in your minds, 
 let me say that she is legitimate. God alone 
 knows how it breaks my heart to let her go. 
 
 "In the other envelope are some papers that 
 may be of interest to Willa when she is of age. I 
 would ask you for good and sacred reasons to 
 hold them as a trust until her 2ist birthday. She 
 was born on the I7th of June, and is now ten 
 weeks old. 
 
 "If you wish to be truly kind, do not try to 
 trace her. I cannot write more. My heart is 
 breaking. Her father is dead, and I shall go soon. 
 "Very respectfully, 
 
 "WILLA'S MOTHER." 
 
 After reading the letter, the Doctor slipped it
 
 THE SURPRISE 15 
 
 into his pocket and turned to his wife, saying: 
 
 "Let us go in." 
 
 He took the baby from her, and silently they 
 walked into the house together. 
 
 "I must go, Mother," he again said. "I am 
 late now. The baby must be fed and cared for. 
 I'll be back just as soon as possible." 
 
 Once more he kissed her, saying: 
 
 "Mother'll be brave, won't she?" 
 
 He got his answer from her eyes, as they looked 
 up into his; for she could not utter a word. He 
 understood, however, all that she would say, and 
 hurried out. As he took the reins from Si, he 
 said: 
 
 "Better keep still, Si. Say nothing unless I tell 
 you to. You might go in to see if there is anything 
 you can do to help Mrs. Warren. Better stay in- 
 side, anyway, Si; she may be nervous." 
 
 Si nodded. One word from the Doctor was 
 enough. All who knew him loved him too well not 
 to carry out his wishes, and Si was no exception.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 THE PICTURE'S BACKGROUND 
 
 MARGARET HOLWAY was the only 
 daughter of Nathan Holway, Presi- 
 dent of the First National Bank in 
 the City of Ripley. The year follow- 
 ing her graduation from High School she went to 
 visit her uncle's family in Longhaven; and during 
 that visit, she met for the first time Hunt M. War- 
 ren, a young medical student from Boston Univer- 
 sity, who, for the summer with other college boys, 
 was acting in the capacity of waiter at one of the 
 large hotels in Longhaven. 
 
 The friendship there formed ripened in the 
 years to come ; and, not long after his own gradu- 
 ation, young Dr. Warren went to Ripley, not on a 
 visit as he had done several times during the past 
 two years, but to claim Margaret Holway for his 
 wife. 
 
 Dr. Warren was seven years older than Mar- 
 garet, and that seven years served well to bind 
 them all the more closely together. They helped 
 him to be not only lover, but elder brother, com- 
 panion, counseler, guide. He seemed to be every- 
 thing that was needed to complete her life, mak- 
 ing of her an all-round developed type of noble 
 womanhood; but it was not the years alone that 
 did this for her. She loved the man with all her 
 
 16
 
 THE PICTURE'S BACKGROUND 17 
 
 heart and he loved her; furthermore, the sweet 
 friendship and trust that each heart had in the 
 other bound their lives together in a way that 
 would have tended to bring out the best in each 
 regardless of years. 
 
 Margaret Holway's most intimate girl friend 
 from childhood, Mabel Fairbanks, had been 
 bridesmaid at the wedding, and Clifford Illsley, the 
 best man. During the evening many eyes rested on 
 these two friends, and more than one guest re- 
 marked that Mabel and Clifford would soon fol- 
 low in the way that Margaret and the Doctor had 
 led. Something, however, no one seemed to know 
 what, happened. Clifford suddenly left Ripley, 
 and so far as any one knew, left no clew behind 
 him. At first the people were curious, but as time 
 went on, their curiosity ebbed until finally his name 
 was rarely mentioned in the community. 
 
 After their marriage, Dr. Warren and his wife 
 settled in the village of Woodrow, and, in spite 
 of her new happiness and the joys of her new 
 home, she never let a week pass without writing to 
 her old friend, Mabel, telling her of the place, the 
 people, and always of the Doctor. When summer 
 came, a letter went containing more than that. It 
 carried a most urgent invitation to her friend to 
 visit them in their new home. 
 
 "Couldn't Aunt Peabody come to look out for 
 your mother, and Em and Hallie do the work for 
 just one month?" Margaret wrote. 
 
 Mabel longed to go. Although it seemed im-
 
 i8 THE PROBLEM 
 
 possible, she read and re-read her friend's letter. 
 She meant to enjoy the thought, if not all that the 
 thought conveyed. Her mother had grown so de- 
 pendent on her, she scarcely dared suggest such a 
 thing as leaving her for a whole month. The girl 
 slept over it; she dreamed over it; and the next 
 morning, as she brushed and braided her mother's 
 heavy, wavy hair, now more than half gray, she 
 spoke of Margaret's letter, of the invitation, and 
 added : 
 
 "But I wouldn't think of leaving you dear, un- 
 less you were willing; you know I wouldn't, be- 
 sides, we don't even know that Aunt Peabody could 
 come." 
 
 "I never thought of her before," said the moth- 
 er. "She was always handy round, and I know, 
 Mabel, you ought to have the rest ; and more than 
 that, the change. It would do you a world of 
 good. How I would like to see Margaret myself ! 
 What is this, the middle of June?" 
 
 "The 1 8th, mother." 
 
 "Well, you write to Aunt Peabody. We'll see 
 what she says." 
 
 "Just as you say. Do you really think I better, 
 mother?" Mabel asked, cautiously, and yet hope- 
 fully. 
 
 "Of course I do," came the genuine response. 
 
 It seemed to Mabel that she had never seen a 
 happier moment. After getting her mother's pil- 
 lows adjusted, and her chair wheeled up to the 
 window, where its occupant could look out on the
 
 THE PICTURE'S BACKGROUND 19 
 
 high school tennis court and watch the boys and 
 girls at play, Mabel left her. Before a half hour 
 had passed, she had followed her mother's sugges- 
 tion and written to "Aunt Peabody," one of those 
 dear old souls who is "Aunt" to everybody and 
 blood relation to nobody. 
 
 Anxiously, Mabel waited for her answer. It 
 was three days in reaching her, but to her delight 
 it said, "Yes." 
 
 When M<.bel had finished reading the welcome 
 epistle to her mother, the latter said : 
 
 "I do not know how I shall ever get along with- 
 out my own sweet nurse, but if that nurse should 
 get sick, I would be even worse off, so we had bet- 
 ter not run the risk. You just go and have the best 
 play time of your life, and the only one you have 
 had for how long has it been, dear, two years?" 
 
 "Two and a half, mother." 
 
 "So it has. You see, dear, you have made it 
 so pleasant for me that the time has not seemed so 
 long. Now, isn't that a compliment?" 
 
 "The best compliment I ever had, mother, dear, 
 and so sweet of you to give it," answered Mabel, 
 as she gave her the morning paper and left a kiss 
 on both her cheeks.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 MABEL'S VISIT 
 
 WOODROW was six miles from the 
 nearest railroad station. When Ma- 
 bel arrived, Margaret was there, with 
 a neat open-backed buggy and Nell, 
 the Doctor's little bay mare, so dappled and shin- 
 ing that one could almost stand by her side and see 
 his own reflection. Mabel, however, did not care 
 to see hers just then; for she knew very well that 
 her hat was askew, her face specked with coal 
 dust, and her hair topsy-turvy; besides, Margaret 
 was there her own old Margaret. 
 
 When greetings were over, Margaret said: 
 
 "The buggy was not big enough to allow three 
 to ride comfortably; and then, Hunt said he knew 
 us well enough to know that we needed to be left 
 alone for a little while to get some of our talk 
 out so he would have a chance to get a word in 
 edgewise." 
 
 "He has seen us before, I guess," Mabel laughed 
 back, as she helped tuck a large extension case into 
 the buggy; after which, the two women, so over- 
 joyed at seeing each other, started on. 
 
 When about half the distance had been covered, 
 Mabel exclaimed 
 
 "And is this Woodrow?" 
 
 Admiration was wrapped up in each word, and 
 
 20
 
 MABEL'S VISIT 21 
 
 even in the tone itself. Margaret noticed it, and 
 asked with feeling: 
 
 "Do you wonder that I love it?" 
 
 "I fear I should not think much of your judg- 
 ment if you did not love it," Mabel answered. 
 "Look, look at those hills! O, stop the horse, 
 Margaret, please do!" 
 
 Margaret drew the reins up tightly, saying as 
 sweetly as to a person, "Whoa, Nellie." 
 
 For a moment, Mabel was simply speechless; 
 and then she pointed to the western sky, so gorge- 
 ous in its golden glory, so radiant in its pinks and 
 reds and yellows that she wondered what the an- 
 gels had done. Had they used all the colors in 
 God's rainbow in painting the sky that night, or 
 had they spilled the several shades and God him- 
 self taken the restless running mass, and with one 
 stroke of that Master hand made a painting so 
 beautiful that with it no Corot could for one mo- 
 ment compare. 
 
 "Margaret! Margaret, do you come here of- 
 ten?" she gasped. 
 
 "As often as I wish," was the reply, "or I mean 
 I can come if I choose, but some times I want to 
 go to other places. This is only one of the many, 
 you know." 
 
 "Well, we'll go," said Mabel with a sigh and 
 another sweeping glance taking in what seemed 
 to her the most beautiful picture she had ever 
 seen. 
 
 Margaret started Nell along, but Mabel, in
 
 22 THE PROBLEM 
 
 spite of their talking kept looking to right and left. 
 She saw such beautiful hills and trees and valleys 
 with here and there little glimpses of the river's 
 sparkling water that it all seemed like a dream 
 to her. 
 
 "O, Margaret," she exclaimed at last. "How 
 can you help being happy here?" 
 
 "I do not help it, dear. I am happy, so tre- 
 mendously happy that my cup ran over, and I sent 
 for you to help sup it with me lest some of it 
 should go to waste," Margaret replied, as she took 
 the reins in one hand and reached the other over 
 to take one of Mabel's, as she had done hundreds 
 of times in the past. 
 
 As they drew near to the village, Mabel said: 
 
 "Let me see if I can guess which place is yours. 
 I bet I can," she added, enthusiastically. 
 
 "All right. You'll know, though," answered 
 Margaret, laughingly. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Wait you'll see." 
 
 She had scarcely finished speaking when Nell 
 of her own accord pricked up her ears, quickened 
 her pace, and then, gracefully bowing her neck 
 and turning toward the buildings on the right, 
 gave one hearty snort and carried them through 
 the big open doorway into the stable. 
 
 Dr. Warren, knowing what Nell would do, 
 was already there to meet them. He lifted Mar- 
 garet from the carriage and kissed her; and then 
 helped Mabel down.
 
 MABEL'S VISIT 23 
 
 "Kiss her, too," said Margaret. "She was my 
 sister, you know, and now she belongs to both of 
 us." 
 
 Thus, the great big hearted boy and manly, 
 true hearted friend kissed Mabel as a brother 
 would have done. 
 
 The tired, worn out city girl could never forget 
 the days that followed, during which time she 
 drove with her friends over hill after hill, some- 
 times over a long, winding roadway, above which 
 the branches on both sides stretched until they met 
 and passed each other with friendly smile, as the 
 soft rays of the sun streamed down through leaf 
 and branch, giving to the passerby a most cordial 
 welcome. This scene ever held a fixed and faithful 
 picture in Mabel's mind; and, during the winter 
 months that followed, she often found herself 
 forming a mental picture of that country road, 
 with its bare trees, the snow-clad fields, and 
 imagined what the ride would be like then, when 
 there was no shade, and no wealth of green on 
 every side. Again, she pictured it after a storm, 
 when each branch and bole bore its weight of 
 fleecy flakes, or glistened and glittered under the 
 rays of a winter's sun. 
 
 It was over this same road eight years later that 
 Doctor Warren was called to drive on that morn- 
 ing when our story opens, and it was over this 
 same road, out on a farm, that Mrs. Munson lived, 
 whom the Doctor was called to see when, hidden 
 in his carriage, he found little Willa.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 WILLA'S RECEPTION 
 
 DR. WARREN, on returning from his 
 visit to Mrs. Munson on that particular 
 morning, found his wife sitting beside 
 the little cradle in which lay their un- 
 expected "gift." That cradle had been in an un- 
 used room up stairs since their own baby girl had 
 been taken from them ; and, when the Doctor saw 
 it, and saw, too, on a table nearby, a basket filled 
 with tiny clothes, he knew the struggle his wife 
 had undergone since his departure. As she rose to 
 meet him, he folded her in his arms, saying : 
 
 "Brave little mother! You have done just 
 right." 
 
 To know that her husband approved was hap- 
 piness to her at any time, and just now his words 
 were especially comforting. 
 
 He soon learned that his wife had eaten no 
 breakfast, but had waited for him to join her on 
 his return. The truth is, neither one had much 
 of an appetite. After sipping their coffee, and 
 talking over the problem before them, Dr. Warren 
 took from his pocket the letter and read it aloud to 
 his wife. 
 
 "Now, the question," he said calmly, "is what 
 shall or should we do?" 
 
 "It seems more like a dream, Hunt, than any- 
 24
 
 WILLA'S RECEPTION 25 
 
 thing else. While you were gone, I wondered if I 
 were really awake," answered Mrs. Warren. 
 
 "But I don't know whether to open that other 
 letter or not," he said thoughtfully. "The plea of 
 the mother seems to have such a genuine ring in it 
 that to do so seems almost like betraying a trust; 
 besides, it is not mine. It is marked to the child. 
 And yet, if it were a case of deception, it would 
 be right to open it." 
 
 "Yes, but how are we to know?" she asked. 
 
 "That's the question." 
 
 "Let's read the letter again to see if we can 
 find a clue," suggested his wife. 
 
 Again the letter was read, and for several mo- 
 ments afterward, both were silent. At last he said : 
 
 "Did you find any?" 
 
 "No but isn't it sad?" 
 
 "Shall we believe what she has said?" he asked. 
 
 "I had rather trust than doubt at any time, 
 hadn't you?" asked his wife. 
 
 "Yes, of course; besides, it is only right to have 
 confidence in others till we prove them unworthy 
 of that confidence. We know nothing of this 
 mother; then, until we know that she has lied, it 
 seems to me that we should believe she has told the 
 truth." 
 
 "Then shall we keep the child?" 
 
 "The mother speaks of 'giving' her to us. If 
 she has, cannot we think of her as ours? We could 
 learn to love her, couldn't we ?" 
 
 "Learn to love her! Why, Hunt, I love her
 
 26 THE PROBLEM 
 
 now." 
 
 "So do I, Margaret." 
 
 "Let's go in and look at her," said Mrs. War- 
 ren. 
 
 Together they went into the room where the 
 child lay asleep. 
 
 "She has good features, hasn't she?" asked the 
 Doctor. 
 
 "Unusually good for a child so young, and a 
 good shaped head, too. Did you notice that?" 
 
 "Yes, and if a change of food does not make 
 her sick as it sometimes does, she will be all right." 
 
 "The top of her head is bald, but down low in 
 the back is quite a lot of hair, and I think it will 
 be light and curly," Mrs. Warren remarked. 
 
 "Probably. Her eyes are blue." 
 
 Thus these two loyal souls stood discussing the 
 new arrival from head to foot. If she had been 
 older, and conscious, no doubt her right ear would 
 have burned, for all they said of her was good; 
 as it was, she lay blissfully unconscious of any 
 change in her surroundings. 
 
 "But the neighbors, did you think of them?" 
 asked Mrs. Warren. 
 
 "Yes; they'll be mighty curious, but what of 
 it? We three are the only ones who know it. Si 
 won't say anything, and we won't. It's no one's 
 business now but ours, so let them wonder." 
 
 "But if they ask whose baby she is?" 
 
 "We'll say, 'She's ours now.' She is ; you know 
 the mother said 'give.' "
 
 WILLA'S RECEPTION 27 
 
 "But that won't satisfy them." 
 
 "I know it won't, but if we make that answer 
 enough times they will grow tired of asking. I 
 believe they are all true enough friends to us, and 
 have confidence enough in us to know that we would 
 not have her unless there was some good reason 
 for our doing so ; as time goes on, they will learn 
 to respect that reason, and to realize that we con- 
 sider it our own personal property." 
 
 "Yes, I think you are right. They would be- 
 lieve anything that you told them. I am not so 
 sure of myself," answered Mrs. Warren. 
 
 "Well, I am," replied her husband. "You know 
 they love you." 
 
 "No, I don't know it. That's the trouble. I 
 know they like me, but a lot of times I think it is 
 just for your sake. Everybody loves you, but I am 
 not jealous. I should be cross with them if they 
 didn't," replied his wife. 
 
 "And I have often thought that they loved me 
 for your sake. Now what do you think of that?" 
 
 But Mrs. Warren did not have time to answer; 
 for baby Willa called them in regular baby fashion. 
 
 The Doctor lifted her from the cradle and 
 passed her to his wife who had reached out her 
 arms to take her. 
 
 Then Willa enjoyed her second breakfast in her 
 new home. Both Dr. and Mrs. Warren watched 
 her as she tugged away at the bottle of milk. Wil- 
 la evidently enjoyed every drop taken. She worked 
 so hard that the drops of perspiration stood in
 
 28 THE PROBLEM 
 
 drops on her little forehead. At last, when her 
 hunger was relieved, she let the rubber slip from 
 her mouth, and looked around her. In a moment 
 her eyes rested on both her new friends ; and when 
 they did, a little smile came to her lips. Although 
 they knew she was not old enough to realize what 
 she was doing, they were glad to see this first in- 
 dication of a happy disposition. 
 
 At that moment, the bell rang. Baby Willa 
 gave a little start, but she did not cry. 
 
 Another call had come for the Doctor; and, as 
 he stepped into the carriage, he turned to Si with 
 the words: 
 
 "You may as well know, Si, first as last, that 
 we are going to keep the child as the mother re- 
 quested us to. If anyone asks you whose child she 
 is, simply say that she is ours now. She is. Furth- 
 er than that, you need to know nothing. Do you 
 understand?" 
 
 "You can trust me, Doctor," answered the faith- 
 ful helper. 
 
 "I know it, Si. If I didn't, I shouldn't have told 
 you this much." 
 
 "I am glad you are going to keep her. She'll 
 be a sight o' company for Mrs. Warren," an- 
 swered Si. 
 
 "You had better go in while I am gone as you 
 did before. She may need something." 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied Si, who, as soon as the car- 
 riage drove away, did as the Doctor had requested 
 and went into the house to see if he could be of
 
 WILLA'S RECEPTION 29 
 
 service either to his old or his new mistress. 
 
 Si's leaving the stable permitted another scene 
 to be enacted. On a loose scafiold above the spot 
 where he and the Doctor had stood, hidden behind 
 a clump of hay, lay Willa's mother. Breathlessly, 
 she had listened to every word uttered by the two 
 men. Her heart leaped with joy when she heard 
 the earnest, sincere tones of Dr. Warren, and re- 
 alized that her prayer was answered. 
 
 Now, she felt her chance had come. She had 
 feared she might have to stay there all day. Before 
 starting, however, she drew from her pocket a 
 crumpled piece of paper and a pencil. In a few 
 moments she wrote, briefly: 
 
 "Dear Dr. and Mrs. Warren: 
 
 "Again I trespass on your good nature, but you 
 must understand a mother's love well enough to 
 forgive me when I tell you that I could not leave 
 my baby until I was sure of the verdict. I, there- 
 fore, ran the risk of hiding on your scaffold. I 
 have just heard Dr. Warren tell his servant that 
 you are to keep the child. God only knows what 
 those words meant to me. May He bless you al- 
 ways, and may Willa prove a blessing to you both. 
 I shall die now knowing that my little girl is safe. 
 
 "WILLA'S MOTHER." 
 
 After folding the note, the woman drew from 
 her belt a stout pin with which she fastened the 
 note to a rafter.
 
 30 THE PROBLEM 
 
 As soon as this was done, she came down the 
 rough steps, slipped out through a back door which 
 led to the hen yard, and thence into the field be- 
 yond. She had come as if by magic, and she left 
 in the same way, that is for all anyone in Wood- 
 row knew. 
 
 It was not until the next day, however, that Si 
 found the mother's message, and when he did, the 
 words, "By crackers!" came from his lips as be- 
 fore. He at once thought of his other surprise, 
 and connected the two; but, showing more honor 
 than some in his place would have done, he put 
 the note in his pocket unread, awaiting the return 
 of the Doctor. He would have taken the note to 
 Mrs. Warren, but feared it might contain some- 
 thing of a startling nature. The Doctor's con- 
 stant solicitude for his wife made Si thoughtful, 
 too. The man did not have to wait long, how- 
 ever, for the sound of wheels was soon heard. Si's 
 face told the Doctor at once that something had 
 happened. 
 
 "I found this, Doctor, pinned to a rafter in the 
 stable. I thought maybe it might tell something, 
 you know," Si said as he passed up the note. 
 
 The Doctor hastily read the message written the 
 day before, after which he walked slowly into the 
 house, and passed the note to his wife. 
 
 "What do you think, now?" he asked, as she let 
 the letter fall in her lap. 
 
 "I feel surer than ever that she told the truth 
 before," said Mrs. Warren.
 
 WILLA'S RECEPTION 31 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because she has now proven that she had a 
 real mother's heart by running the risk of being 
 found rather than leave her child to an uncer- 
 tainty." 
 
 "Little philosopher!" exclaimed the Doctor. 
 
 Again, they both looked at the child that, for 
 all that knew now, was to grow up as their own, 
 the child that from this time on should be called 
 Willa Warren; in fact, they knew of no other 
 name by which to call her.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE NEIGHBORS 
 
 " -w- AND sakes, Mrs. Brown, I do believe 
 Mrs. Warren is never goin' ter git over 
 the losin' o' that little girl of her'n. I've 
 
 P Vhpsrrl how that once every so often she 
 goes and gits out all her little clothes and looks at 
 'em and cries and cries, though she's always cheer- 
 ful like when I sees her ; but just now as I come past 
 I sees a lot of little clothes out on the line. I s'pose 
 she washes 'em once in a while to keep 'em from 
 yellowin', don't you?" 
 
 Mrs. Lindsey had "dropped in" to make a call 
 on Mrs. Brown, whose house she had to pass on 
 her way to the store. As Mrs. Lindsey talked, she 
 wiped the drops of perspiration from her face, and 
 then picked up a newspaper that lay in a chair near- 
 by, and began to fan herself. 
 
 On the floor at her right sat a four quart basket, 
 made by real Indians who had camped over at one 
 edge of Woodrow the winter before, and in the 
 basket were three dozen fresh eggs which she was 
 taking to the store to exchange for some print, 
 preparatory to lining a new quilt she had just 
 pieced. 
 
 Mrs. Brown listened to her neighbor's discus- 
 sion of Mrs. Warren, the baby that was dead, and 
 the clothes now on the line. She scarcely knew
 
 THE NEIGHBORS 33 
 
 what answer to make. She knew very well why 
 those clothes were on the line; she knew of the 
 baby girl now at the Doctor's, and she herself had 
 seen the child. She also knew how much her 
 caller would enjoy having this piece of news to 
 carry with her. No one in the town feasted more 
 on other people's affairs than did Mrs. Lindsey; 
 and, the more exciting the piece of news, the great- 
 er her enjoyment of it. She would twist the mat- 
 ter around under her tongue like a sweet morsel 
 that must be thoroughly chewed and mixed with 
 the saliva of her own opinion in order to be 
 thoroughly digested. Sometimes, mental Fletch- 
 erizing is good for one, but seldom when prac- 
 ticed on food belonging to one's neighbors. Mrs. 
 Brown, realizing this, resolved that she herself 
 would not be the one to spread the news; and, 
 consequently, replied: 
 
 "I do not wonder she feels the loss. I never 
 saw a sweeter child than little Angie." 
 
 "Well, I never seen her but onct, and that was 
 at the fun'ral. She looked jist like a little wax 
 doll, then," answered Mrs. Lindsey. 
 
 "You see we live nearer than you, and I used to 
 see her often. I think the loss of her has been as 
 big a blow to the Doctor as to his wife," said Mrs. 
 Brown. 
 
 "Well, he al'ays did love children. I knew if 
 they ever hed one o' their own, he'd love it to 
 death," replied her caller. 
 
 "God knows best, of course; but sometimes,
 
 34 THE PROBLEM 
 
 when I have thought of their case, I could not help 
 thinking of the Jefferson family. They had their 
 eleventh one the same year Angie was born, and all 
 that winter they did not have more than half 
 enough to eat, nor clothes enough to keep them 
 warm, and yet every one of them lived through it. 
 They are always well in spite of their poverty and 
 dirt." 
 
 "I know it and that beats me. I'se speakin' to 
 my man 'bout that very thing only yisterday," an- 
 swered Mrs. Lindsey. 
 
 Mrs. Lindsey invariably spoke of her husband, 
 Tom, as "my man." Why she could not say, "my 
 husband," or "Tom," or "Mr. Lindsey," Mrs. 
 Brown could never understand, and while she was 
 thinking of it, her neighbor only emphasized the 
 thought by saying: 
 
 "Well, I must be trottin' on, or I won't be 
 home in time to git my man's dinner." 
 
 As she went down over the steps of Mrs. 
 Brown's house, the latter said : 
 
 "If you will call on your way back, you may fill 
 your basket with apples. They are getting real 
 good for pies and sauce. We have used them for 
 a week, now." 
 
 "O, thanks! I'd like ter have some. My man 
 said last night he wished we had an apple tree." 
 
 "The wind yesterday took off a lot, and you can 
 have some as well as not." 
 
 "Then I'll be in on my way back. Good-by, Mrs. 
 Brown."
 
 THE NEIGHBORS 35 
 
 The house sat about four rods from the road, 
 and before Mrs. Lindsey had reached the turn, she 
 called back to her neighbor, "There ain't no errand 
 at the store that I kin do fer you, is there?" 
 
 "Why, no, I yes, there is, too. Just a minute," 
 answered Mrs. Brown, who ran into the house and 
 came back with a nickel. 
 
 "I do want a spool of number 100 thread, white, 
 and if you will get it, it will save my going down." 
 
 "I thought maybe there might be somethin' and 
 it would save you a goin'," replied Mrs. Lindsey. 
 
 Mrs. Brown said to herself, as her neighbor 
 went out of the yard: 
 
 "An awful good hearted woman, poor soul, but 
 awful newsy. That's her one failing. I'm glad I 
 thought about the apples. They will enjoy them. 
 I wonder what time it is." As she said the last 
 words, she stepped into the dining-room to look at 
 the new clock of which she was very proud. When 
 she found that it was already 10:15, she thought 
 of her bread, and noticed that it was raised, all 
 ready for the oven. She removed the snow white 
 towel with which it was covered, and one by one 
 gently placed the tins within the oven and closed 
 the door. As she folded the towel and laid it on 
 the pantry shelf, she said: 
 
 "If that gets baked by the time Mrs. Lindsey 
 comes, I'll give her a loaf. I know it will be good 
 and it will be a change for her and Tom." 
 
 Before long, the loaves were baked a golden 
 brown and looked as light as a feather. She had
 
 36 THE PROBLEM 
 
 scarcely placed them on her bread-board and cov- 
 ered with the same white towel when Mrs. Lind- 
 sey's step was heard outside. 
 
 "Sophia Brown! I never was so s'prised in my 
 life," gasped Mrs. Lindsey. 
 
 "Why, what has happened, Mrs. Lindsey? 
 You look scared." 
 
 "No, I ain't scared none, but I am dum' found- 
 ed. Don't you remember when I'se here before, 
 how we were talking 'bout Mrs. Warren an' the 
 baby clothes?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, I've jist found out there's a real live baby 
 there a real one." 
 
 "What, company?" asked Mrs. Brown, with not 
 a note in her voice which could possibly tell Mrs. 
 Lindsey that she was not hearing something for 
 the first time. 
 
 "Company? No, but a baby is there, so Mrs. 
 Little jist told me when I was in her store; and 
 she says her boy, Jim, seen it when he was up 
 there last night. He said, 'Why, Mrs. Warren, 
 whose baby yer got?' and she said, 'She's ours 
 now,' and then when he comes out, he asked Si the 
 same thing, and Si made him the same answer. No- 
 body knows where it came from, nor whose it is, 
 nor how long it's goin' to stay, nor nothin'. Did 
 yer ever hear the likes o' that?" asked Mrs. Lind- 
 sey, as she stopped to get breath. 
 
 "Is it a boy or girl?" inquired Mrs. Brown, 
 innocently.
 
 THE NEIGHBORS 37 
 
 "A girl, so Jim said." 
 
 "Maybe they've adopted it." 
 
 "Maybe, but, my land! There ain't been no 
 babies round town here only what belonged to 
 folks, and we know every one of them anyhows, 
 so where did she come from?" asked Mrs. Lind- 
 sey, who acted as though she could not rest until 
 the mystery was solved. 
 
 "She must be like Topsy, just 'grew,' " laughed 
 Mrs. Brown. 
 
 "I guess she must. Mrs. Little said she was 
 goin' up herself this afternoon ter see it. Jim 
 said Mrs. Warren sat there holdin' it jist like it 
 was Angie." 
 
 "I am glad if she has one. She will take a lot 
 of comfort with her." 
 
 "Yes, that's right. But where did she come 
 from? That's what puzzles me," and Mrs. Lind- 
 sey reached into her pocket for her handkerchief, 
 where she found the spool of thread that she had 
 bought for Mrs. Brown. 
 
 "Land sakes!" she exclaimed. "I most forgot 
 yer thread; and that makes me think. Mrs. Lit- 
 tle said, when she found out I was gittin' print to 
 line my quilt, that she thought I ought ter hev a 
 quiltin' and hev a lot o' the women come in ter 
 help me. She thought Thursday would be a good 
 time. Could you come then?" 
 
 "Thursday? Yes, I think I could," answered 
 Mrs. Brown slowly; for, she was revolving in her 
 mind the reason for Mrs. Little's having suggested
 
 38 THE PROBLEM 
 
 this quilting, and could not help thinking it might 
 be for the sake of getting a lot of the neighbors 
 together to see what could be learned about the new 
 comer to town. However, she knew that feeling 
 must be given vent to at some time, and perhaps 
 the sooner the better. At any rate, she would be 
 there, and perhaps might act in the capacity of a 
 bridle to the tongues of some of her neighbors. 
 
 "Well, then, had I better git word to the dif- 
 ferent ones? Do you think they'll come?" asked 
 Mrs. Lindsey. 
 
 "Why, of course, they will come if they can." 
 
 "Then I'll call an' see Mrs. Perkins, and Miss 
 Bolster, and when my man comes up fer the mail 
 to-night, he kin see a lot more. I must hurry. It 
 must be after eleven, ain't it?" 
 
 "About half past, I think. But you want your 
 apples. You can fill your basket out of that pail, 
 and just wait a minute," said Mrs. Brown, kindly. 
 
 She went into the pantry and soon reappeared 
 with a loaf of her newly baked bread, neatly wrap- 
 ped in a clean, fresh paper. 
 
 "I thought maybe you and Mr. Lindsey would 
 like to sample some of my new bread for your din- 
 ner. It's all warm." 
 
 "Well, now, Mrs. Brown, if you don't beat 
 everything I ever see. Now you ain't robbin' your- 
 self, be yer?" 
 
 "No, indeed. I baked four. I hope it will be 
 good." 
 
 "Good! No one ever seen you bake none that
 
 THE NEIGHBORS 39 
 
 wa'n't good," answered Mrs. Lindsey, little realiz- 
 ing what a doubtful compliment she was paying 
 her neighbor.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE QUILTING 
 
 WHEN Thursday came, Mrs. Brown 
 went to the quilting, not so much be- 
 cause she really wished to go, but be- 
 cause Woodrow was Woodrow, 
 neighbors were neighbors, and she would not think 
 of extending such a slight to one as not to accept an 
 invitation to such a gathering; besides, she felt she 
 might be needed. 
 
 The nine women present all lived within a radius 
 of two miles, and near enough to the village of 
 Woodrow to know the happenings there. When 
 Mrs. Brown arrived, the quilt was in the frame and 
 spread full size in the Lindsey sitting-room, or par- 
 lor, whichever one prefers to call it; for it served 
 for both, in fact was the only large room in the 
 house except the kitchen. As she entered this 
 room, she heard the words, "very mysterious," and 
 at once guessed the topic under discussion. Hav- 
 ing prepared herself for whatever might come, she 
 began to discuss the quilt, some of the pieces in it 
 which she recognized as coming from a dress be- 
 longing to Grandma Lindsey, or Mrs. Tom Lind- 
 sey; she also found various patterns that had once 
 been hers, as several months ago she had given her 
 neighbor a lot of pieces. In a few minutes she was 
 telling them about the first quilting she ever at- 
 
 40
 
 THE QUILTING 41 
 
 tended, and relating some of the funny things that 
 happened there. This encouraged those present to 
 follow her example. Others arrived, and all this 
 time only general conversation was enjoyed. About 
 the middle of the afternoon, Mrs. Brown was si- 
 lently congratulating them on their good behaviour, 
 and thinking that perhaps she had misjudged her 
 neighbors after all, when she heard the sound of 
 wheels; and, looking out, saw Dr. Warren drive 
 by. 
 
 "I suppose you all know about the baby, don't 
 you?" asked Mrs. Little. 
 
 "Yes," and "No," came at once, the latter in 
 tones of great astonishment. 
 
 "Why, what baby?" came from those who had 
 answered in the negative. 
 
 "You haven't heard about the baby they have 
 there?" she asked. 
 
 "Who has there? What do you mean?" asked 
 Susan Greely and Hannah Bolster in the same 
 breath. 
 
 "Dr. and Mrs. Warren, of course." 
 
 "But hers died," replied Susan, "and I didn't 
 know she was " 
 
 "She wasn't, but this has just come'' answered 
 Mrs. Little. 
 
 "Come from where?" continued the other. 
 
 "That's what we don't know, but there's the 
 baby. I seen her myself last night," replied Mrs. 
 Little. 
 
 "For the land sakes! How big is she?" asked
 
 42 THE PROBLEM 
 
 Mrs. Plummer. 
 
 "O, 'bout two, or three months, wouldn't you 
 think so Mrs. Brown, or ain't you seen her?" 
 
 "Yes, I have seen her, and she is a dear, isn't 
 she?" 
 
 "Yes, she's a lovely baby, but that don't tell 
 us where she came from, as I see," answered the 
 much concerned Mrs. Little. 
 
 "P'r'aps some o' their poor relations died an' 
 left the baby. Prob'ly they've got poor relations 
 like all the rest o' us," suggested Susan. 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder, and maybe that's why they 
 don't want ter talk about it for fear we'll find out 
 it came from a poor family," said Mrs. Lindsey 
 in a tone of satisfaction, as though the mystery was 
 solved. 
 
 "I don't think that would make any difference 
 with the Doctor and I don't know as it would with 
 his wife. They never was no kind of stuck-up 
 folks, you know, not even when they first came 
 here," remarked Grammie Beals. 
 
 "That's right. You never see them looking 
 down on nobody, do you?" came from another. 
 
 "Well, what do you think, Mrs. Brown? You 
 live nearer than any the rest of us. Do you think 
 it's some relation of theirs, or did they send to 
 some orphan home or somethin' of that sort for 
 one to adopt where their'n died?" asked Mrs. Lit- 
 tle. 
 
 "I am sure I could not tell you because I do not 
 know," replied Mrs. Brown; and then, seriously
 
 THE QUILTING 43 
 
 but kindly, she added, "to tell the truth, I think I 
 had just as soon not know until they get ready to 
 tell me. If ever I knew a true gentleman and lady, 
 they are Dr. and Mrs. Warren ; and I have a pret- 
 ty good chance to know them, too. Mrs. Warren 
 simply said, 'She's ours now,' and knowing her as 
 well as I do, I knew she had some good, solid rea- 
 son for not saying more, because she always speaks 
 very freely to me. Consequently, until she gets 
 ready to tell me that reason, I shall consider that 
 it belongs to her, not to me. More than that, to 
 tell the truth, I do not feel that it is any of my 
 business. I just know there is some good reason 
 for their having her, and I can't be thankful 
 enough that she is there. She will do more for 
 Mrs. Warren than all the medicine in the world." 
 
 "I'm glad, too," said Mrs. Little in a very dif- 
 ferent tone from what she had used before. 
 
 Mrs. Brown at once noticed the change, and ap- 
 parently all the others did also, for in another mo- 
 ment the subject was changed and not referred to 
 again the whole afternoon. 
 
 It certainly seemed that Mrs. Brown's words 
 had gone home to the heart of each one there, 
 and it seemed so afterwards, too; for, from that 
 time on, the spirit shown by her seemed to per- 
 vade all Woodrow, until one and all took for 
 granted the right of Dr. and Mrs. Warren to the 
 possession of Willa.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 CHARACTER REVEALED 
 
 MRS. BROWN is no longer the nearest 
 neighbor of Dr. and Mrs. Warren. 
 Si Campbell, who for several years 
 had been like one of the Warren fam- 
 ily, so much did he think of them and they of him, 
 decided that he would prefer a home of his own; 
 and, as Hannah Bolster was not averse to changing 
 her name to Hannah Campbell, plans for the wed- 
 ding were accordingly made. 
 
 The Doctor's house sat on the edge of his ten 
 acre lot and next to the village of Woodrow. As 
 he felt that he could not easily replace Si, he 
 and his wife agreed that Si better put up a neat lit- 
 tle house on the lower side of their own lot. This 
 plan was carried out and the house built during 
 the summer that Willa was three years old. All 
 through those months, Willa's chief delight was to 
 visit the new house, and to play with the long, 
 curly shavings which seemed to be everywhere. She 
 was not allowed to go unless Mrs. Warren, the 
 Doctor, or Si went with her, but with three people 
 to act as escort Willa found many opportunities 
 for visiting this scene of delight. Nothing seemed 
 to escape her attention ; she even grew to feel that 
 the workmen could scarcely get along without her; 
 she had to have her little hammer and shingle nails, 
 
 44
 
 CHARACTER REVEALED 45 
 
 and one corner of the place was called hers. 
 
 Day after day, if Si were there, Willa would 
 spend hours picking up and playing with the "tun- 
 nin' 'ittle pieces," as she called the various bits of 
 trimmings which came off and were scattered about. 
 
 There was scarcely a day when the Doctor did 
 not go down to see how the men were getting 
 along, and one day in particular when the plaster- 
 ing was done and the finish being put on, the Doc- 
 tor started for the new house and Willa went with 
 him. The long work-bench was in one of the 
 rooms; shavings of every description were scat- 
 tered in heaps around the floor, and Willa was 
 soon in their midst. As the Doctor and the work- 
 men started for the next room to look around, the 
 former noticing that one of the men had left his 
 knife lying open on the bench, turned to Willa, 
 saying : 
 
 "Don't touch the knife, Willa." 
 
 "No," said the little voice that had grown so 
 dear to them, but the injunction given simply 
 served as a suggestion to the active little mind, 
 which before that time had not been conscious of 
 the knife's presence. The men had no more than 
 gotten out of sight when, childlike, Willa left her 
 shavings and went to inspect the forbidden knife. 
 The "don't" of the Doctor was at once forgotten; 
 and, wholly unconscious for the time that she was 
 disobeying, the child picked up the knife so bright 
 and shining, turning it first this way and that, un- 
 til suddenly the blade went into the soft baby flesh
 
 46 THE PROBLEM 
 
 on one of her little thumbs. It did not go deep, 
 but deep enough to bring Willa to her senses. Al- 
 though it hurt, no cry came from her. She care- 
 fully replaced the knife but that was much easier 
 than replacing her peace of mind; for, never be- 
 fore had she deliberately disobeyed the Doctor, 
 whom she loved better than anyone else in all the 
 world. She loved Mrs. Warren dearly, but she 
 almost reverenced her "papa." Never had there 
 been a jar between them. It was enough for her 
 at any time to know that "papa wants baby do 
 this," or "not do this," as the case might be. 
 
 As she saw a few drops of blood coming from 
 the cut, the tears came to her eyes and rolled down 
 her cheeks, although no sound accompanied them. 
 It being her left thumb that was cut, she reached 
 with her right hand into her apron pocket, and drew 
 out her Christmas handkerchief, which had a col- 
 ored border consisting of dogs's and children's 
 heads, and which to Willa seemed very beautiful 
 indeed. She wrapped her wounded thumb in this, 
 after which she tucked the thumb into the palm of 
 her hand, and shut her four fat fingers over it. 
 When the Doctor and the workmen returned, Wil- 
 la's gaiety was gone. However, the men and he 
 were so taken up with plans for the house that no 
 one noticed the change in the little lady's mood. 
 The Doctor started home and Willa followed. As 
 pieces of boards, stones, and other debris had to be 
 climbed over, the Doctor reached to take Willa 
 by the hand lest she fall; but, quick as a flash,
 
 CHARACTER REVEALED 4? 
 
 Willa leaped to the other side and slipped her right 
 hand into his. Thinking she was unusually quiet 
 for her, the big man said kindly: 
 
 "Didn't Papa stay long enough, or didn't Willa 
 have a good time?" 
 
 There was no answer from Willa. She dared 
 not trust herself to speak. A great lump was in 
 her throat, and try as she would, she could not 
 swallow it. 
 
 She was bareheaded, and with no hat to shade 
 her face, the Doctor had a better chance to study 
 her expression; and, knowing her as he did, he 
 was sure that something was troubling her. From 
 babyhood, he had sought to have her confidence, 
 and he had always succeeded. He must not fail 
 now. Suddenly, he saw the tears trickling down 
 her cheeks, and he tried again : 
 
 "Willa isn't sick, is she?" 
 
 A shake of her head was her only answer. The 
 tender tone, however, of the Doctor made it hard- 
 er and harder to hold in. They were nearly to 
 their own house, and the Doctor, knowing that, 
 whatever the trouble might be, he would more 
 quickly learn the nature of it if they were alone, 
 directed their steps toward the summer house 
 where were rocking chairs and Willa's swing. One 
 of her chief delights was to have her papa sit in 
 her swing while she pushed it, and he thought pos- 
 sibly by having a little play with her, she might 
 become herself once more. They were just climb- 
 ing the steps of this shady retreat when Willa broke
 
 48 THE PROBLEM 
 
 down and cried as though her heart would break. 
 
 He took her in his arms and sat down in one of 
 the easy chairs. With her right hand she took the 
 bottom of her apron to wipe the tears away, but 
 they came so thick and fast that finally the Doctor 
 had to take his own handkerchief. Tenderly he 
 dried the face and kissed her little forehead, say- ' 
 ing: 
 
 "Isn't Willa going to tell papa what the trouble 
 is? Willa knows papa loves her, doesn't she?" 
 
 For several minutes, heavy sobs were his only 
 answer; and then, cuddling up close to him and 
 throwing both arms around his neck, she burst out : 
 
 "Willa naughty," and, as though fearful lest the 
 realization of this might separate them, she drew 
 her arms tighter and tighter about his neck and 
 tucked her own face up close to his. 
 
 The Doctor was a man of sufficient thought and 
 sense to realize what those two words had cost 
 Willa; and to realize, too, that no harder battle 
 is fought by men and women to-day than the one 
 which had just been fought by this little girl, and 
 he felt that she had come off victorious. 
 
 Never had he been so proud of her, and never 
 had he appreciated her true worth more than at 
 that moment. He drew his strong arms closer 
 about her, and said in his tenderest tones : 
 
 "Tell papa about it. Papa never scolds you, 
 does he?" 
 
 A shake of her head was all the answer she 
 could make, and a sigh which shook her whole
 
 CHARACTER REVEALED 49 
 
 frame accompanied that. 
 
 "Then sit down on papa's knee and tell him all 
 about it, won't you?" 
 
 This time she nodded and another sigh came. 
 
 "That's a little lady," he said, encouragingly, 
 and he could see that she was slowly getting con- 
 trol of herself. 
 
 Taking her from his shoulder, he placed her on 
 his knee and folded his arms about her. After 
 waiting a few moments, he said: 
 
 "Willa ready now? What was Willa naughty 
 about?" 
 
 "De knife. Papa told baby not tate it. Baby 
 toot it. Baby tut fum," and she held it up for his 
 inspection. 
 
 The Doctor could scarcely keep from smiling 
 when he saw how Willa had shielded it, and yet he 
 showed no signs of amusement for he knew that 
 this was a serious time in Willa's little life, and one 
 which might teach her many lessons in days to 
 come. 
 
 "And baby feels sorry?" he asked, kindly. 
 
 Willa nodded, her lips trembled, and she winked 
 hard and fast to keep the tears back. 
 
 "If Willa hadn't touched the knife, the knife 
 wouldn't have cut, would it?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Then if Willa had minded papa, she wouldn't 
 have been hurt, would she?" 
 
 Another shake of her head came. 
 
 "Willa knows now that she ought to have mind-
 
 50 THE PROBLEM 
 
 ed, doesn't she?" 
 
 This time a nod came as his answer. 
 
 "And she is sorry now and wants to be good?" 
 
 Another nod followed. 
 
 "Well papa is very, very sorry that little Willa 
 was naughty, but he is so pleased to think that she 
 has told him all about it like a little lady that he 
 isn't going to scold her or punish her at all this 
 time, but if she hadn't told papa and he had found 
 out about it, he would have had to punish her be- 
 cause she didn't mind him. Do you understand?" 
 
 This time a faint "yes" accompanied the nod. 
 
 "Then your being sorry, and not being naughty 
 any more, makes papa forgive you, and is going 
 to mend everything, isn't it?" 
 
 "And mate papa 'uv me den?" she asked, hope- 
 fully. 
 
 "Papa always loves you, darling. And you will 
 always come to papa and tell him everything?" 
 
 "Yes," and as though to bind the contract all 
 the more firmly, she tucked her little fat hand into 
 his big palm and left it there. 
 
 Thus ended a scene which neither Willa nor the 
 Doctor ever forgot, a scene that bound their hearts 
 more closely together than ever before. 
 
 On going into the house, neither spoke of what 
 had happened, but that night after Willa had knelt 
 by Mrs. Warren's knee and said that blessed, child- 
 ish prayer: "Now I lay me down to sleep," and 
 finished by saying, "Dod b'ess papa; Dod b'ess 
 mama; Dod b'ess baby; Dod b'ess ebbybody,
 
 CHARACTER REVEALED 51 
 
 amen;" had given them each a good-night kiss, 
 climbed into her little bed and gone to Dreamland, 
 the Doctor told his wife all about their afternoon's 
 experience, adding: 
 
 "I'm almost glad she did it, because it proves to 
 us the true nature of the child and that she is one 
 in a hundred. One seldom sees a child who, of 
 her own free will, would have made such a confes- 
 sion after deliberately disobeying." 
 
 "I think it was one of the noblest things I ever 
 knew a child to do. It is hard for even grown peo- 
 ple to do that," answered his wife. 
 
 "I think this ought to convince anyone that she 
 is true blue, don't you?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, but there is no one to convince but us, and 
 we were convinced long ago, weren't we?" 
 
 "I know, but it is gratifying even then to see the 
 fact emphasized from time to time as she grows 
 older." 
 
 The two were sitting in one corner of the porch 
 as they talked, and to the relief of both, no call 
 came for the Doctor, and they had the whole even- 
 ing together. This was, indeed a treat to both; 
 for no two hearts were ever more united in every- 
 thing than those two, and the little stranger who 
 had joined them, although she had wedged her 
 way into the heart of each, only served to cement 
 their own all the more closely together.
 
 1 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 THE DELAYED VACATION 
 
 HE following summer Dr. Warren felt 
 certain that his wife needed a change 
 and rest; more especially because, here- 
 tofore, she had flatly refused to go any- 
 where, even to her old home in Ripley unless he 
 could go, too. Arrangements were accordingly 
 made for them to leave. Without much difficulty, 
 he succeeded in getting a substitute, for the time 
 being, a young Harvard graduate who was only 
 too glad to come, both for the sake of the practice 
 and for the sake of a start financially, because he 
 was well aware of the fact that for the past few 
 years money had been constantly going out, and 
 only a very little or none coming in. 
 
 The young man, Henry V. Livermore, was to 
 come to Woodrow three days prior to the Doctor's 
 leaving, during which time he was to become ac- 
 quainted with the present patients, which for a few 
 weeks might come under his care. 
 
 Plans were made for Hannah and Si to go up 
 to the Doctor's to stay during this time, thus giv- 
 ing the young man a home and an opportunity to 
 use Dr. Warren's office and study. When the 
 looked for day came, no one was more concerned 
 than Willa. To her, as to any child of four years, 
 the trip meant more than a trip to Europe would 
 
 52
 
 THE DELAYED VACATION 53 
 
 mean to an adult. In spite of her happiness, how- 
 ever, her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears 
 as she said "good-by" to Hannah and Si, who to her 
 seemed a part of their own family. 
 
 During that forenoon, Hannah certainly found 
 enough to keep her busy. There was picking up 
 and straightening around to do in every room, there 
 was a pie to be made, and dinner to get. 
 
 Dr. Livermore did not return at once from the 
 postoffice. 
 
 "Probably he's staying round talking to folks, 
 trying to get acquainted," said Hannah to herself 
 as she bustled about from one room to another; 
 in fact, all over the place from parlor to stable. 
 The truth is, Hannah missed each one of the three. 
 
 "Seems like there'd been a funeral," she said to 
 Si, when she passed him in the shed where he was 
 piling up tier after tier of winter's wood. 
 
 "Bless the dear! Look a' that," said Hannah, 
 holding up to Si's view the little washboard which 
 he himself, by making grooves in a thin, smooth 
 piece of hard wood and putting on a neat frame, 
 had made for Willa. This rested in a keeler where 
 the child had left it the day before when she 
 was helping, as she thought, to wash. It was an 
 expected thing when washday came for Willa to 
 wash, too, and no child to-day gets more pleasure 
 with a toy piano or a Teddy bear than Willa got 
 with her little tub and home-made washboard. 
 
 Not a single day passed when some similar in- 
 cident did not take place which brought Willa fresh
 
 54 THE PROBLEM 
 
 in the minds of her loyal friends. Even Dr. Liv- 
 ermore had become attached to the child in the 
 few days he had known her; and, day after day 
 he had studied the picture of her that was on Dr. 
 Warren's desk. Something about the face had at- 
 tracted him, held him ; but he simply thought that 
 she was an exceptionally interesting, precocious 
 child. The thought that she was not the own child 
 of Dr. and Mrs. Warren never came to him, and 
 there was no reason why it should, as no one had 
 even hinted at such a thing. 
 
 One day when the family had been gone over 
 a week, he came in from making a call on one of 
 the village patients ; he had been caught in a heavy 
 shower and his feet were wet. After going to his 
 room and changing shoes and stockings, he came 
 back to the study and sat down to read up more 
 thoroughly the diagnosis, when Hannah came out 
 of Willa's room exclaiming: 
 
 "Well, I never! You just come here, Doctor, 
 and look a' that." 
 
 The young Doctor followed. At first he did not 
 see anything to attract his attention, but Hannah 
 continued : 
 
 "Even the cat misses her. You look at that bed, 
 now. I had it all made up nice and smooth, and 
 now look at it. Every mornin' that cat comes in 
 this room to see if Willa is up, and if she ain't, he 
 jumps up there an' they have a play together. Just 
 see those tracks !" and Hannah pointed to the dents 
 in the white spread where each paw had gone as
 
 THE DELAYED VACATION 55 
 
 the cat had made his way diagonally across the bed, 
 and then at the head had disarranged the sham as 
 a result of his search for Willa. 
 
 "If that isn't cunning! See how he misses her. 
 He is the most stupid cat with other folks and they 
 wouldn't keep him if it wan't for Willa, but she 
 can do anything with him. Many a time I've seen 
 her wheel him back and forth across the kitchen in 
 her little doll cart, and he'd stick out his paws and 
 play with the spokes in the wheels just as happy 
 as could be; and, goodness! One o' us couldn't 
 ha' kept him there while we's saying 'scat !' ' 
 
 By the time Dr. Livermore got back to the study, 
 his mind had gone from the subject of diagnoses, 
 and he sat gazing at Willa's picture. All at once 
 he started, sat bolt upright, and then leaned over 
 to take the picture in his hand. He turned it first 
 one way and then another. At last, he said to him- 
 self: 
 
 "I've solved the mystery. I have tried ever since 
 I have been here to make up my mind where I 
 had seen a face that Willa's reminded me of, but 
 now I know. It's the picture that father has of 
 Aunt Emily taken when she was a child. The ex- 
 pression around the eyes and mouth are just the 
 same. By George, it is! I wish I had it here. 
 Father wouldn't let it out of the house, though, for 
 love nor money. He blames himself and always 
 will. Wouldn't it be strange if the Warren's were 
 some relation to our family and we never knew it; 
 but, Mrs. Warren isn't, for we know of her fam-
 
 56 THE PROBLEM 
 
 ily in Ripley. I wonder where the Doctor came 
 from. I must ask Mrs. Campbell," and he hur- 
 riedly rose to go to the kitchen where she was at 
 work when he heard one of the neighbors come in. 
 He turned on his heel, his hands in his pockets, and 
 paced the floor back and forth several times. Sud- 
 denly, his eyes lighted on a well worn Bible, and he 
 remembered seeing family records in some old 
 Bibles and wondered if there was one in this. He 
 opened it anxiously, and found it to be one be- 
 longing to the Warren family. In it were entered 
 several names, but the record stopped with the 
 death of the Doctor's father, fifteen years before. 
 Not even the Doctor's marriage was entered. He 
 carefully read and re-read the names but none of 
 them was in any way connected with his own fam- 
 ily history. He reluctantly closed the book, feel- 
 ing that the matter was settled. What had seemed 
 like a clew was only a coincident, after all. Not a 
 day passed after that when he did not think of the 
 resemblance between the two faces, but he never 
 spoke of it. He had grown so accustomed to 
 keeping silent about their family trouble that it had 
 now become second nature to him. Nevertheless, 
 he again and again wished that he might compare 
 the two pictures to see if the resemblance were real 
 or simply a creation of his own imagination.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 AT THE OLD HOME 
 
 NOW, Mrs. Holway, you will let them 
 come, won't you?" 
 The speaker was Mabel Fairbanks, 
 the old school friend of Mrs. War- 
 ren's, who first visited Woodrow the summer fol- 
 lowing Margaret's marriage. She was now plead- 
 ing for the Doctor, Margaret and Willa to go 
 over to their house to supper. 
 
 So many friends did Margaret have who had 
 not seen her since her marriage that Mrs. Holway 
 was beginning to grow worried lest her daughter's 
 stay at home might in reality be shorter than they 
 had anticipated. True, she and Mr. Holway had 
 visited her several times at Christmas, and twice 
 had they been at Woodrow during the summer, but 
 not once before had Margaret been home since the 
 day of her marriage. She had refused to come 
 without the Doctor, and never before had he really 
 felt that he could leave. As it was, he did so now 
 wholly on her account; but, free again, he was en- 
 joying the respite from work as much as his wife. 
 At the time of Mabel's call, the Doctor and 
 Willa had gone for a ride with Mr. Holway, who 
 with his wife knew the secret of this little family 
 knew that Willa was not their own grandchild. 
 More than one neighbor exclaimed: 
 
 57
 
 58 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "How much she looks like her mother!" 
 
 Her light hair and blue eyes naturally made 
 everybody feel that she did resemble Mrs. Warren 
 instead of the Doctor, who had dark hair and 
 eyes, and clear, dark skin. 
 
 But whether there is resemblance or not, what 
 child ever grew up without being told that he or 
 she looked like father or mother, grandfather or 
 grandmother, uncles or aunts, even unto the third 
 and fourth generations? It is so easy, when some 
 comment is felt necessary, to say: "She does look 
 
 so much like . I always thought a lot of 
 
 . We were the best of friends," and then 
 
 to sit back congratulating oneself on having said 
 something very clever and courteous. Many, in- 
 deed, are the doubtful compliments heaped on the 
 innocents of every age. However, in the case of 
 Mrs. Warren and Willa, each might consider that 
 a compliment had been paid her. 
 
 By the time Mabel left the Holway home, she 
 had gained the consent of Mrs. Holway, who 
 finally said: 
 
 "I know, dear, it is lovely in you to have them, 
 and they will enjoy every minute; but truly, Ma- 
 bel, I am afraid it is too much for you. You have 
 so much to do all the time." 
 
 "O, don't you think of that! Besides, Hallie 
 is turning into a real housekeeper. She has done 
 a good part of the cooking ever since she gradu- 
 ated. We were speaking of Em last night. She 
 will be so disappointed not to see Margaret!"
 
 AT THE OLD HOME 59 
 
 "I have been worrying about Em," said Mrs. 
 Holway, kindly. "I am afraid she will get all 
 tired out this summer, and not feel rested for her 
 year's work." 
 
 "I know," answered Mabel, regretfully. "We 
 all felt her year's teaching was enough; but, you 
 know those people and that they pay well for tu- 
 toring. She just couldn't resist." 
 
 "If she can only stand it, it will be all right, 
 but I have feared it was too much," replied Mrs. 
 Holway, in her motherly way. 
 
 "When we say a word, she only laughs, and says 
 she is of age now so we can't make her mind. Hallie 
 was bound to do something to help, but Uncle Dick 
 just put his foot down. You know Uncle Dick. 
 What he says has to go, and he stuck to it that she 
 must stay home to help me for a while." 
 
 Margaret and her mother accompanied Mabel 
 to the gate, where Mrs. Holway stopped to pick a 
 rose just bloomed for Mabel to carry to her moth- 
 er. The three then parted, Mabel having Margar- 
 et's promise that they would visit her that evening. 
 
 The first day after her arrival, Margaret had 
 gone to see Mrs. Fairbanks, who was so changed 
 that only her eyes looked natural, and even they 
 seemed larger, so thin and wasted had she grown. 
 As Margaret had looked at her lying partially 
 bolstered up in her wheel chair, her wavy hair a 
 mass of silver about her radiant face, she felt, as 
 she told her mother afterward, that there was 
 something angelic about her.
 
 60 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "But hasn't their uncle been one man in a hun- 
 dred!" exclaimed Margaret, when they were alone 
 together. 
 
 "One in a thousand, I should say; but if you 
 had known Dick Tenny as a boy you would never 
 wonder at his becoming the man that he has," an- 
 swered Mrs. Holway. 
 
 "And to think that they don't even know wheth- 
 er Mr. Fairbanks is dead or alive !" said Margaret 
 with a shudder. 
 
 "I know it. It's no wonder Mrs. Fairbanks is 
 where she is," answered her mother. 
 
 The two were still talking when they heard 
 the sound of wheels and a whoop of delight from 
 Willa as the carriage came into the yard. Look- 
 ing out, Margaret saw not only her father, the 
 doctor, and Willa, but a strange little girl about 
 ten years of age. 
 
 " 'Trawberries, Gamma ! 'Trawberries, Mama ! 
 See!" cried Willa, holding up for their inspection 
 a three quart pail of field berries. 
 
 The Doctor jumped out, lifted from the buggy 
 first Willa, and then the little girl who said her 
 name was Jennie Jordan, and who was on her way 
 to sell the berries, when the three had overtaken 
 her. 
 
 The two children followed Mrs. Holway and 
 Margaret into the house; and, before Mrs. Hol- 
 way could set the pail of berries on the table, Willa 
 was teasing for a cookie. Jennie was also treated 
 and then led by Willa to grandma's sewing room,
 
 AT THE OLD HOME 61 
 
 in one corner of which was a box of playthings; 
 and there, the two children entertained themselves 
 while Mrs. Holway turned the berries out on a 
 large platter, washed the pail and packed it with 
 cookies, candy, and peanuts, crowning all with a 
 generous piece of chocolate cake. 
 
 "What time is it?" asked Jennie, anxiously, on 
 being told that her pail was ready, but that she 
 might play longer if she wished. 
 
 "Just quarter of eleven," answered Mrs. Hol- 
 way, kindly. 
 
 "Then I must go, 'cause I've got to go to the 
 store for mama," answered Jennie, taking a long- 
 ing look at the box of toys. 
 
 She did not know then of the surprise awaiting 
 her in the little tin pail. She only knew that she 
 was in what seemed Fairyland, indeed; but she 
 was no more loath to leave than Willa was to have 
 her go. When Willa was told that Jennie had two 
 brothers and four sisters, she exclaimed : 
 
 "G'acious ! If I had one ev'y, ev'y day, I's be 
 sat'sfied and fink I's 'ich." 
 
 Thus, each child in her own little way was envy- 
 ing the other.
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 THE DOCTOR'S OPINION 
 
 HAT same evening, between eight and 
 nine o'clock, Mr. and Mrs. Holway 
 were sitting on their back porch, where 
 they had gone earlier in the evening to 
 enjoy the glorious sunset, when they heard the 
 sound of voices and Willa's childish prattle. The 
 Doctor and his wife had been obliged to make their 
 visit shorter than it otherwise would have been on 
 the child's account ; for Willa was not in the habit 
 of sitting up late, and had been allowed to go only 
 for the sake of Mrs. Fairbanks, who insisted on 
 having the child come as well as her father and 
 mother. For so many years the two families had 
 stood on friendly terms that ceremony could at all 
 times be laid aside, and thus it was to-night. 
 
 After Willa had gone on a mission, giving each 
 one a good-night kiss, she went inside with her 
 mother and was soon in her little bed. Before she 
 would let her mother leave, however, she made her 
 promise to send her papa in, "jes' a minute, mama," 
 she pleaded. 
 
 Mrs. Warren, accordingly, delivered the mes- 
 sage to her husband, who, as soon as he and the 
 others had finished the topic under discussion, rose 
 and went to Willa's room. 
 
 As he leaned over the bed, the child sat up, 
 S62
 
 THE DOCTOR'S OPINION 63 
 
 clasped both arms about his neck, gave him a kiss 
 on each cheek, and then in a whisper said : 
 
 "Papa, when's Kismas?" 
 
 "O, Christmas won't be for a long, long time. 
 What has put that in your head?" 
 
 " 'Cause, I was finking o' sumfin' I wanted," 
 she answered. 
 
 It was dark and Willa could not see the smile 
 that hovered around the Doctor's mouth. 
 
 "Why, what does Willa want?" he asked, so- 
 berly. 
 
 "You know Jennie the girl Gampa bought ber- 
 ries of?" 
 
 "Yes," 
 
 "Well, she said dis mornin' dat she had free, 
 four, ten, I guess, bruzzers and sissers, an' I fought 
 maybe, 'fore we went home, you'd buy Willa one." 
 
 For a full minute the Doctor was silent. He 
 felt the touch of the childish cheek against his, 
 and felt her anxious breathing. He knew with 
 what longing she waited for his answer to the ques- 
 tion that seemed so reasonable to her, but in reality 
 was so impossible. 
 
 "Willa, dear," he said tenderly and slowly, 
 "you know papa always tells you the truth, doesn't 
 he?" 
 
 "Yes, papa," she answered. 
 
 "Well, don't you know how much papa and ma- 
 ma love you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And they wouldn't think of selling you if thef
 
 64 THE PROBLEM 
 
 were offered all the money in the world, would 
 they?" 
 
 "N-o," she answered, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Well, that little girl's papa and mama love her, 
 don't they?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And they would love her brothers and sisters 
 just the same, wouldn't they?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then we couldn't expect them to sell one of 
 them, could we ?" 
 
 "But, papa, I fot dey is so many, and dey is 
 poor, 'cause she was selling berries to det money, 
 an' maybe dey'd sell a bruzzer or sisser, 'cause I 
 haven't any, you know." 
 
 "I know, dear, but " 
 
 "But, papa, will you jest ast dem when we det 
 berries, den?" urged Willa. 
 
 "Yes, papa will ask them, but he knows they 
 will say 'no.' ' 
 
 "But you will ast dem, won't you?" 
 
 "Yes, when I see them again, I will ask them." 
 
 "I knew you would, 'cause you don't b'ame Wil- 
 la for wanting a bruzzer or sisser, do you?" 
 
 "No, dear, papa doesn't blame you. Now you 
 will lie down and go to sleep, won't you?" 
 
 "Yes. Dood night, an' fank you, papa." 
 
 "Good night, precious," said the Doctor, as he 
 lay the child down on the pillow and left a kiss on 
 her lips and another on her forehead. 
 
 Willa was soon in Dreamland, and little knew
 
 THE DOCTOR'S OPINION 65 
 
 the heartache which her childish words had caused 
 him, but which in reality made him love her all the 
 more ; for they went to prove that she was a nor- 
 mal child with natural childish longings. 
 
 The big-hearted man decided not to tell his wife, 
 for she would only remember their loss of the past, 
 which would cause a cloud to pass over her sky 
 that was just now so serene and clear. Instead, 
 he joined the group on the piazza, and was soon 
 having a part in the conversation. 
 
 "What do you think of Mrs. Fairbanks, Hunt?" 
 asked Mrs. Holway. 
 
 "She looks to me as though she was partly in 
 the other world, already, and was simply keeping 
 her hold on this one by a thread so slender that it 
 might break at any moment." 
 
 "She can't last long, can she?" 
 
 "I should not be surprised if they should walk in 
 now to say that she was dead," he answered. 
 
 "That is just the way I have felt for days," 
 said Mrs. Holway. "I do not like to say anything 
 to Mabel, for it would only worry her; and it has 
 been coming on so gradually that I do not think 
 she notices it so much as we." 
 
 "She can't, for she and Hallie were so happy, 
 to-night," said Margaret. 
 
 "If it had not been for that happy disposition, 
 Mabel would never have held up as she has," re- 
 plied her mother. 
 
 "What did Willa want?" asked Margaret, turn- 
 ing to her husband.
 
 66 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "O, she wanted to know when 'Kismas' was 
 coming," laughed the Doctor. 
 
 "Anything for an excuse to get one of us to 
 stay with her a little longer. I guess it was that 
 more than anything else," said his wife, and the 
 Doctor did not tell her the difference.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 I 
 
 "1 HE next morning, Margaret had just 
 dressed Willa, and the Doctor was lac- 
 ing her shoes, when the child who sat 
 facing the window, cried emphatically, 
 "Here's Auntie Mabel!" 
 
 Mabel, who had gone to the kitchen door, 
 started to open the screen, but finding it hasped, 
 rapped just as Margaret appeared to greet her. 
 One look at her face, blanched and drawn, so 
 frightened Mrs. Warren that she could not even 
 say, "Good morning." 
 
 "Where's Hunt?" Mabel gasped, "and Mr. 
 Holway?" 
 
 "In the sitting-room. Why, what's happened, 
 Mabel?" said Margaret. 
 
 "May I see them alone?" the other asked. 
 
 "Of course. Come in," replied the other, as she 
 led the way to the room where her husband and 
 father sat. 
 
 Willa had followed to the door, and now stood 
 clinging to her mother's hand. She had expected 
 a romp, as she was wont to have with "Auntie Ma- 
 bel," but this Mabel she did not know, and not a 
 word came from her. 
 
 The fears which the Doctor had expressed the 
 evening before had partially prepared Mrs. Hoi- 
 
 67
 
 68 THE PROBLEM 
 
 way and Margaret for whatever the shock might 
 be, but both returned to the kitchen and left Ma- 
 bel alone with the two as requested. 
 
 The moment the Doctor looked at her, he 
 thought he knew what had happened. No tear 
 was to be seen; no tremble of her voice was de- 
 tected as she spoke. 
 
 "My story is long, but let me tell it," she said. 
 "Don't ask any questions until I am through," she 
 went on. 
 
 Both men nodded, and she continued : 
 
 "I have come here because you all are among the 
 best friends we have in the world. I didn't tell 
 Margaret because I couldn't; besides, I thought 
 you might break the news more gently." 
 
 Both men looked at her in astonishment. Both 
 felt certain that her mother must be dead, but why 
 didn't she say so? They waited anxiously while 
 the girl paused to take breath, after which she 
 went on in the same even tone as before : 
 
 "Last night we went to bed as usual, and we 
 heard no disturbance through the night. This 
 morning I was awakened by the birds in the trees 
 near my window. Remembering how much I had 
 to do to-day, I was glad to have waked early, and 
 I dressed as quickly as possible. The first thing 
 on going to the kitchen I always open the door to 
 let in the fresh morning air, and this morning when 
 I opened it, I saw a man's form lying there, face 
 downward, as if asleep. It gave me a dreadful 
 start and I ran back to wake Hallie. He seemed
 
 THE VISITOR 69 
 
 to be sleeping so soundly that we tiptoed out to 
 look at him, and " here she stopped, cov- 
 ering her face with her hands, before she could 
 say, "and it was father." 
 
 "Your father!" exclaimed Mr. Holway, jump- 
 ing from his chair and forgetting for a moment 
 her request in the beginning. 
 
 "Yes, and he was dead." 
 
 She paused again, swallowed several times, and 
 several times opened her mouth as if to speak, but 
 for moments it seemed as though no word would 
 come. 
 
 "We waited for the milkman to come along," 
 she at last said, "and he helped us to take him in- 
 side. Mother heard the commotion and asked us 
 what it was, and what we were up so early for. 
 We tried to put her off, but of course we had to 
 have the undertaker, and she saw him pass the 
 door. Before we had time to realize anything, 
 she, who hasn't walked alone for so many years, 
 went straight to that room, and there she saw 
 father. We all stood there almost paralyzed. She 
 went up close to him and took one long look; the 
 word 'Henry' came in a whisper, and then she 
 fainted. We called the doctor at once, but she's 
 gone, too." 
 
 "Mabel !" gasped the two men, as they stepped 
 to her chair and laid their hands on each of her 
 shoulders. Their hearts were so full of pity that 
 they could not say another word. 
 
 For several minutes she sat there, her head
 
 70 THE PROBLEM 
 
 buried in her hands, and when she raised it, she 
 saw tears in the eyes of both her listeners. She 
 rose to go. The blank, dazed look was still on her 
 face. 
 
 "I'll go with you," said the Doctor. 
 
 "No, you wait and tell Margaret. Tell it easy," 
 and in another second she was gone. Down over 
 the walk she sped, and the two men with hearts 
 so full of sympathy felt for a moment perfectly 
 helpless before this sorrow. 
 
 At last, the Doctor said, "Hadn't we better tell 
 them now?" 
 
 "They may as well know it one time as another, 
 and they must be somewhat prepared by seeing her 
 come in in this way, with that look on her face," 
 answered Mr. Holway. 
 
 "Is Willa there?" asked the Doctor, opening 
 the door to the kitchen. 
 
 "No, she is out feeding the pigeons. What is it, 
 Hunt?" asked his wife. 
 
 He told the sad story which had more inter- 
 ruptions this time than it had had during the pre- 
 vious telling. When he had finished, the Doctor 
 said: 
 
 "Mabel is in danger. I must go over at once. 
 I'll see if I can persuade her to take something for 
 her nerves. A good cry would do her more good 
 than anything else." 
 
 "I'll go, too," said Margaret. "Mother'll look 
 out for Willa." 
 
 "You wait a little while. Let me go first, and
 
 THE VISITOR 71 
 
 then I will come back for you," said the Doc- 
 tor, tenderly. 
 
 "Yes, you better, Margaret," urged the mother. 
 
 The Doctor at once hurried away. At the Fair- 
 banks home, he found Dr. Channing, the under- 
 taker, his assistant, and Mrs. Fleming, who worked 
 out by the day, and for whom their family doctor 
 had urged Mabel to send. 
 
 Several minutes passed before Dr. Warren saw 
 either Mabel or Hallie. From the undertaker he 
 learned that the father had come home a mere 
 tramp, and evidently had exerted all his strength 
 in reaching the home of his family not the origin- 
 al Fairbanks home, but where the family had lived 
 since reverses came upon them. No money, no 
 papers were found on his body to give the family 
 the least clue as to the story of his life during his 
 long absence. In one pocket was a pipe, which 
 was partly filled with ashes, but no fresh tobacco 
 was found. In an inner pocket on his shirt was 
 a much soiled picture of Mrs. Fairbanks taken be- 
 fore they were married. Some twine, three or four 
 nails and a few buttons constituted the all with 
 which he had returned. Judging from the appear- 
 ance of his shoes, the man had walked a long dis- 
 tance. No doubt, overcome by fatigue and hunger, 
 he could not stand the shock he had felt in nearing 
 the home of the family which, years before, he 
 had so cruelly forsaken. 
 
 As Dr. Warren left the room, he encountered 
 Mabel and Hallie who had just come down the
 
 72 THE PROBLEM 
 
 stairs. Hallie's eyes were red and swollen, but 
 Mabel, as before, was calm, too calm for her own 
 good. 
 
 "Girls, I want to speak to you a minute," said 
 the Doctor. 
 
 The two halted, looking straight at him. 
 
 "I want you both to feel," he went on, "that 
 each one of us is at your service. You know there 
 is nothing in our power that we would not do to 
 help you, and please ask me to do anything that 
 you would ask an own brother to do." 
 
 "Thank you; we trust you. Perhaps you will 
 look after the telegrams," suggested Mabel. 
 
 "Anything. Let's sit down here and you give 
 me the names," answered the Doctor. 
 
 The three sat down by the dining-room table 
 while name after name was written. 
 
 "I have been wondering," said Mabel, "if James 
 Gooding that last name I gave you and his 
 wife could not come by to-night and stay until 
 after." 
 
 She stopped. The Doctor nodded and Mabel 
 went on : 
 
 "He is a second cousin of ours. They haven't 
 any children, and they could come to stay over bet- 
 ter than any of the others, and I think they will if 
 we ask them." 
 
 "I'll send at once," replied the Doctor. 
 
 "Hallie and I will leave you while you are writ- 
 ing. Emily will be here by noon, but we have some 
 things that we need to look after up stairs," said
 
 THE VISITOR 73 
 
 Mabel. 
 
 When the two sisters again appeared, they found 
 Margaret, who had come with a true woman's 
 heart, with a woman's sympathy and help, the 
 sweetness and genuineness of which touched Ma- 
 bel in such a way as to bring the tears, and when 
 once started it seemed as though her whole soul 
 was being poured out with them.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 NEW PLANS 
 
 I 
 
 weeks later, Mabel, Emily and 
 Hallie were over to Mrs. Holway's to 
 dinner. It was the evening before the 
 Doctor, Margaret and Willa were to re- 
 turn to Woodrow. In fact, they had already stayed 
 a week longer than they had anticipated, and now 
 they felt that they must not stay another day. 
 
 More than once, Mabel had thought their visit 
 providential at this time, such a support and com- 
 fort had they been to her and her sisters. The past 
 few weeks had wrought great changes in their lives. 
 Plans were all made, and Hallie had been prom- 
 ised a position as teacher in Canton, in the same 
 school where Emily taught, and Mabel had been 
 asked to act as matron in the "Home for Girls," 
 at Blanchard. The trustees had even promised to 
 hold the position open until October, because both 
 Dr. Channing and Dr. Warren agreed that the 
 girl must have a rest before taking on herself any 
 new and added duties. More than that, the girl 
 had promised Margaret and the Doctor to spend 
 the month of September at Woodrow. She was 
 determined, however, now that her mother needed 
 her no longer, that she would cease to be dependent 
 on her uncle, who had already done so much for 
 them. 
 
 74
 
 NEW PLANS 75 
 
 The bulk of their furniture had been sold, and 
 much of the money used, although uncle Dick had 
 sent check as usual; but it seemed to the girls at 
 that time that money was needed on all sides. 
 
 On the evening in question, Willa was allowed 
 to sit up later than usual, the older ones thinking 
 that her childish playfulness might be a source of 
 pleasure and comfort to their guests, and so they 
 were for she had won her way into the heart of 
 each. She preferred Hallie, however, for Hallie 
 would help her to dress or to undress her dolls, 
 build block houses, or in fact be a child herself 
 once more. The power to do this, as the others 
 said after her departure, would do more than 
 anything else to make her a successful teacher. The 
 children would love her, and often times a poor 
 teacher will do better work with the love of chil- 
 dren, than a good one will without it. 
 
 "They are three noble girls, and I am proud of 
 each one of them," said Mr. Holway. 
 
 "They feel as keenly as anyone, and yet see how 
 bravely they bear up under it," replied his wife. 
 
 "I'm glad Mabel is going to have the month in 
 Woodrow," said the Doctor. "That other visit did 
 her a world of good." 
 
 "She needs it more than the others; besides 
 they are to be together and will be company for 
 each other," said Margaret thoughtfully. 
 
 They finally rose with the intention of starting 
 for bed. Margaret's trunk sat at one side of the 
 kitchen, all strapped and ready for the man to
 
 76 THE PROBLEM 
 
 take the next morning. What few things they had 
 left out could go in their grip which the Doctor 
 would carry. 
 
 It does seem as though I can't let you go," said 
 Mrs. Holway. 
 
 "My! But we are going to miss that child!" 
 said her husband, positively. 
 
 "Now, hear him !" said Margaret to the Doctor. 
 "He never mentions missing us," she said, march- 
 ing straight up to her father and throwing her 
 arms around his neck. 
 
 "You two are old enough to know that we shall 
 miss you, without our telling you," answered the 
 good-natured man, laughingly, as he pulled her 
 on his knee, just as he had done hundreds and hun- 
 dreds of times in the past. 
 
 "I don't see what we have done that you should 
 punish us so," he went on. "First you got the Doc- 
 tor and made us love him, and then, Willa, and 
 made us love her, and now the three of you go 
 and leave us all alone. I think that is pretty tough 
 on an old couple like us," he said playfully. 
 
 "Old!" cried Margaret. "You and mother'll 
 never be old. It isn't your style," she said, pinch- 
 ing both his cheeks and giving him a Scotch kiss 
 as Willa was fond of doing. 
 
 "We might stay young if we had you children 
 around all the time," he said, "but I tell you, there 
 is no joke to it. We do get pretty lonesome, some- 
 times." 
 
 "But you don't wish I had never found Hunt,
 
 NEW PLANS 77 
 
 and had stayed a cross old maid all my life, now 
 do you?" said his daughter, winking at the Doc- 
 tor who stood leaning against the door-casing. 
 
 "Bless you, no ! We never would have had a 
 son if you hadn't gotten us one; and, had we 
 chosen him ourselves, we couldn't have loved him 
 more," answered her father. 
 
 "Ahem! Thank you," said the Doctor. "Then 
 you have never regretted giving her to me?" he 
 asked, more seriously. 
 
 "Never ! but we can't help missing her just the 
 same, can we mother?" the rather answered. 
 
 Mrs. Holway had just returned to the room. 
 While the others had been talking, she had been 
 in the pantry getting some dainties ready for their 
 luncheon which would be packed in the morning, 
 and which she felt she could not trust to the maid. 
 
 "Can we what?" she asked, for she had not 
 heard what had been said. 
 
 "Of course, they know that we miss them," she 
 replied when told the nature of the discussion, "and 
 yet we realize each day how much we have to be 
 thankful for. We can go to see them if they can- 
 not always come here, and supposing Hunt was 
 a regular scapegoat of a man, what would we do 
 then?" 
 
 "Don't worry your head about that, mother. If 
 he had been that kind he never would have had 
 me," said Margaret. 
 
 For a full half-hour the four talked and laughed 
 before separating for the night. When up-stairs,
 
 78 THE PROBLEM 
 
 they all took a last look at Willa, as she lay there 
 fast asleep, the right arm thrown up over her head, 
 and the left stretched out straight from the should- 
 er. Golden curls encircled the fair, fresh face, 
 which made a picture beyond the power of any 
 artist's brush. 
 
 "Sometimes, what you have told us seems like 
 a dream," said Mr. Holway to the Doctor, "and 
 then I begin to wonder if it is only a dream or a 
 stern reality after all. She seems all that one could 
 ask for in their own flesh and blood." 
 
 "If she continues as she has begun, she will do 
 credit to anyone," answered the Doctor. "The 
 only question that ever arises in my mind is wheth- 
 er or not we ought to love her as we do, because 
 if another should ever claim her, it would be like 
 taking a part of our very lives." 
 
 "I have often thought of that," answered the 
 older man. "But, on the other hand, wouldn't it 
 be wrong not to love a child like her?" he asked, 
 pointing at the fairy-like picture. 
 
 'Twould be beastly," he went on, more 
 earnestly. "Any one with any heart at all would 
 have to love her, besides " 
 
 "I can't bear to think of it," said the Doctor, 
 gently touching her little hand. "Just so long as 
 she is with us, we shall love her, and do for her 
 all that is within our power." 
 
 "God bless you in the effort," said Mr. Holway, 
 warmly, as he turned to his wife who stood in the 
 doorway talking to Margaret.
 
 NEW PLANS 79 
 
 "Come, little woman," he said. We must leave 
 the children, or none of us will be ready to get up 
 in the morning."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 A JOYOUS RETURN 
 
 IN spite of the good time they had had in Rip- 
 ley, the three travelers were happy to be home 
 again, and all Woodrow seemed happy to 
 have them. They arrived in the evening just 
 in time to escape a heavy shower, and the next 
 morning God's out-of-doors was washed clean and 
 sweet. Even the fresh mud puddles held a fasci- 
 nation for Willa, and nothing would satisfy her 
 but to don her new rubber boots which her father 
 had bought her in Ripley and test each puddle to 
 be found between their house and Si's, as well as 
 those around their own buildings, for the cow and 
 the chickens all had to have a call from her, and 
 be fed from her own little hands. 
 
 Hannah was still at the house, and was to re- 
 main for the day, until Mrs. Warren should have 
 her trunk unpacked and feel ready again to take 
 charge. 
 
 Si was indeed happy to have Willa back, fol- 
 lowing him around, asking questions that made him 
 dizzy to answer, and some that he could not an- 
 swer, like: "Why is de smoke from our chimney 
 black, Si, and dat from your chimney white?" and 
 many others of like propensity. However, whether 
 he could answer them or not, it was a comfort to 
 have her near and to hear the little voice that had 
 
 80
 
 A JOYOUS RETURN 81 
 
 grown to be music in his ears. 
 
 The two doctors were in busy consultation. Dr. 
 Warren had many questions to ask about his vari- 
 ous patients throughout the town; and, although 
 there were some unpleasant things to hear, for the 
 most part the reports were very gratifying. When 
 the list had been gone over, the young doctor leaned 
 back in his chair, looked Dr. Warren straight in the 
 eye, and in a most serious tone said : 
 
 "Naturally, I am anxious to make a success of 
 my profession from a financial standpoint as well as 
 in other ways, but if I were not in actual need of 
 money, it seems to me that wherever I locate I 
 should be satisfied if my people only loved me as 
 these people love you." 
 
 This was something for which Dr. Warren was 
 not looking; for he was one who never gave him- 
 self due credit, and anyone knowing him would 
 sometimes wonder if the word "conceit" was even 
 printed in his dictionary. 
 
 "If they love me," he replied, "it must be be- 
 cause I loved them first. They are as loyal, true 
 a people as I ever knew." 
 
 "They are a good people, and their devotion to 
 you is not merely wonderful, but beautiful." 
 
 "You are just starting out on the field that lies 
 before you. Do you want me to give you a little 
 piece of advice?" asked Dr. Warren. 
 
 "I surely would be glad for it," replied the 
 younger man. 
 
 "Then let me say now that the first thing you
 
 82 THE PROBLEM 
 
 want to do, after you get settled, and your pocket- 
 book will allow it, is to choose a true, earnest, lov- 
 able woman for a wife." 
 
 A smile played about the mouth of the young 
 doctor. After a few moments, he said: 
 
 "I believe you are right; and, although I have 
 not as yet asked her, for to do so before I have a 
 start in life would be cheeky, I have in mind a girl 
 whom some day I hope to make my wife." 
 
 "You want to remember that while one wants 
 love, that alone is not enough. She needs to be a 
 friend and companion, and then, when you take up 
 your life-work together, you will find yourselves 
 standing on a foundation which grows stronger and 
 stronger as the years go by," answered Dr. War- 
 ren. 
 
 The words were scarcely uttered when Willa 
 came bounding in. She had tried on the wet grass 
 outside to scrape the mud from her boots; but, 
 notwithstanding her honest efforts, there still re- 
 mained many signs of her morning's play. Now 
 and then on her apron were to be seen spatters of 
 muddy water. Her cheeks were rosy. Her hat 
 fallen from her head was hanging at the back of 
 her neck by the elastic under her chin. A grimy 
 spot was on one cheek, her chin was stained, and 
 her hands, brown as nuts, were filled with red and 
 white clover blossoms on which the drops of water 
 were still clinging. 
 
 "O, papa, I 'ike my 'ubber boots a lot. See, I 
 went ev'ywhere and never dot wet at all," she
 
 A JOYOUS RETURN 83 
 
 cried. 
 
 The two men looked at her. The clovers them- 
 selves, with all their fragrance seemed to bring no 
 more of a breath from heaven than did this rosy- 
 cheeked, happy faced child. 
 
 "See, papa, I dot you and mama, each a botay. 
 Are you p'eased?" she asked. 
 
 "Of course, papa is pleased. Ask mama for a 
 dish to put them in and see how pretty they will 
 look," he answered, appreciatively. 
 
 She started for the kitchen where her mother 
 and Hannah were at work, and the latter found 
 her a glass. 
 
 "But I want two. Dis is papa's and dis ma- 
 ma's," said the child, holding up for Hannah's 
 inspection two boquets of clover, made as nearly 
 alike as her childish judgment would allow. 
 
 Hannah, accordingly, brought out another glass, 
 and soon Willa had placed her mother's on the 
 dining-room table; with measured steps, lest she 
 spill the water, she started with the other to her 
 papa's study. Both he and Dr. Livermore looked 
 up as she entered; they noted how carefully she 
 held the glass, and how cautiously each step was 
 taken, but Willa's eyes were fixed on the clovers; 
 the rubber boots were new, and the rugs were not 
 placed just as they were at grandma's where she 
 had been for the past five weeks. The result was, 
 the toe of one of those new rubber boots stubbed 
 over a rug that lay in her pathway, and Willa went 
 headlong.
 
 84 THE PROBLEM 
 
 The two men sprang from their chairs in the 
 hope of saving her, but they were too late. Clovers 
 went in every direction, and water followed, a good 
 part of which went on Willa herself. So tightly,how- 
 ever was she holding the glass that, as she fell, she 
 kept her hold of it, although to do so caused her 
 to receive bumps on her elbow and chin that might 
 otherwise have been averted. 
 
 The cry that came from her brought Mrs. War- 
 ren and Hannah to the scene. The Doctor picked 
 her up and gently tried to sooth her; while Dr. 
 Livermore picked up the pink and white clovers 
 which those tiny fingers had gathered, so shortly 
 before. 
 
 While the Doctor attended to the bruises, Mrs. 
 Warren hunted up a dry dress and apron, and some 
 slippers to take the place of the heavy boots. When 
 these were donned the man returned to his study, 
 and sat down with Willa in his arms. Although 
 she felt better, sigh after sigh came as a result of 
 her fit of weeping; and, leaning back on his strong 
 arm, tired with her journey of the day before and 
 the morning's tramp about the place, she soon fell 
 asleep. For nearly half an hour, even in her sleep, 
 a sob shook her little frame and her arm jerked. 
 The two men spoke in whispers lest they wake her. 
 They knew that a quiet nap would make her as 
 good as new. 
 
 "You gave me advice a little while ago about 
 getting married," said Dr. Livermore. "If ever I 
 am married and am the father of a child as sweet
 
 A JOYOUS RETURN 85 
 
 as your Willa, I shall be the happiest man in all the 
 world. Do you realize that she is a remarkable 
 child?" 
 
 "Yes, she is all right," answered the other, "and 
 her disposition is wonderful. She will listen to one 
 and be reasoned with; and when she fully under- 
 stands a thing, she invariably chooses what she 
 thinks is right." 
 
 "And some children would be spoiled if they 
 were made as much of as she, but it does not seem 
 to effect her in the least, unless it is to bring out 
 love from her for everybody. I never saw a child 
 like her," the young man said, shaking his head. 
 
 In the midst of this quiet talk, a call came for 
 the Doctor. Word had gotten around that he was 
 home. Although he answered the call himself, he 
 insisted that Dr. Livermore drive with him, a dis- 
 tance of about two miles. 
 
 The Doctor so gently laid Willa on the couch 
 that the child still slept. The two had been gone 
 more than half an hour when she opened her eyes 
 and found that she was alone.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 NEW LESSONS TAUGHT 
 
 AGAIN Mabel Fairbanks came to 
 Woodrow, and never had the place been 
 more beautiful than during the month of 
 September, in which she visited Mar- 
 garet, the Doctor, and Willa. The reds, the yel- 
 lows, the browns, the greens all blended in au- 
 tumnal glory such as is seldom seen. The tired, 
 worn out girl, pale from care, trouble and worry 
 seemed to catch something of the splendor about 
 her; a color came to her cheeks, and a light and 
 sparkle to her eyes such as would have surprised 
 her friends in Ripley. Again, she took those de- 
 lightful drives here and there in Woodrow; and, 
 when not driving hour after hour was spent with 
 Willa in the open air, for the Doctor had insisted 
 on her staying out of doors as much as possible. 
 However, with the beauty of Woodrow on the one 
 hand, and the companionship of a child as original, 
 clever, and attractive as Willa on the other, obey- 
 ing the Doctor's orders was not so difficult a task. 
 Sometimes, long strolls were taken, when lunch 
 boxes were in evidence; sometimes a fishing trip 
 was enjoyed, for the river ran within a mile of the 
 Doctor's house. It would have been hard, indeed, 
 for an onlooker to have told which of the two was 
 getting the more enjoyment from the little outing. 
 
 86
 
 NEW LESSONS TAUGHT 87 
 
 Although only once did they catch anything, they 
 certainly had the pleasure of seeing the speckled 
 trout darting up and down, in and out, beneath the 
 water; and, as though imbued with the true Ike 
 Walton spirit they found joy in fishing other than 
 the reward which is usually expected. 
 
 These were happy days for Mabel, as well as for 
 her loyal friends who took such keen pleasure in 
 watching from day to day the change that was tak- 
 ing place in her. During those days she surely 
 learned to appreciate the true worth of her two old 
 friends, and her new little friend as never before. 
 
 One day when she had been there about two 
 weeks, she and Willa returned from one of their 
 tramps, not a very long one, but a pleasant one, 
 and joined Mrs. Warren who sat on the porch 
 hemming a dainty lawn apron for Willa. This 
 had to be laid aside as Willa came bounding to 
 her, both hands filled with treasures such as mosses 
 and gorgeous leaves of indescribable beauty, fresh- 
 ly gathered from the woods. Willa's eye was par- 
 ticularly well trained for a child of her years, 
 largely due to the fact that the spring before her 
 father had taken her to the woods, where together 
 they had tried, on one day, to see how many kinds 
 of mosses they could find; on another, how many 
 kinds of ferns, and so on until Willa's powers of 
 perception manifested themselves in such a way as 
 to surprise even the Doctor. The lessons learned 
 then had come with Willa through the intervening 
 days and months; until now, in her tramps with
 
 88 THE PROBLEM 
 
 Mabel, they again had a chance to show them- 
 selves, furnishing delight for the girl so much older 
 in years, and yet from this point of view no more 
 alert or appreciative than this wee lady of four 
 summers. 
 
 As the child bestowed these "woodsy" treasures 
 on her mother, the latter admired the selection of 
 the little girl before her who was eagerly waiting 
 for words of appreciation and approval. 
 
 Before they were scarcely aware of the fact, it 
 was supper time. As Mrs. Warren gathered up 
 her sewing and work box, she saw among the spools 
 of cotton a thimble belonging to Hannah. Having 
 at that moment thought of something she wished 
 to say to Mabel and which she did not wish Willa to 
 hear, she took advantage of the opportunity and 
 said: "Here is Hannah's thimble that she left 
 yesterday. Doesn't Willa want to run down with 
 it?" 
 
 Willa was very fond of visiting Hannah, and 
 was at once ready to comply with her mother's sug- 
 gestion. Taking the thimble she slipped it over 
 one of her little fingers, and shut her hand tightly 
 lest she lose it. For the time being, both Mrs. War- 
 ren and Mabel forgot the child ; they did not think 
 of her again until they saw the Doctor drive into 
 the yard, and Willa, sitting beside him, with both 
 her little hands locked around his arm. 
 
 Si, who was in the shed, came out to put up the 
 horse, and as the Doctor lifted Willa from the bug- 
 gy, she put her chubby hand into the pocket of her
 
 NEW LESSONS TAUGHT 89 
 
 apron and drew out a tiny, delicate shell. As they 
 went into the house together, she exclaimed : "See, 
 isn't it pretty?" 
 
 "A shell? Hannah give you that?" asked her 
 father, taking the shell from her and examining it. 
 
 "No, 'twas in her box wiv de fread when I put 
 de finable back," quickly replied Willa. 
 
 "And did she give it to you, or did you just take 
 it?" asked the Doctor, earnestly. 
 
 "Why, I toot it. Ain't it pretty?" enquired the 
 child innocently. 
 
 The Doctor did not answer. He put the shell 
 into his pocket, and somehow Willa began to feel 
 that something was not right, although she could 
 not have told what. He said nothing further on 
 the subject until the next morning, although he had 
 lain awake more than one hour in the night think- 
 ing the matter over, and wondering what he ought 
 to do. He was conscious that Willa did not know 
 the meaning of the word "steal," but how was he 
 to teach her? Her sense of right and wrong had 
 always been most acute for a child of her years, but 
 here was a new problem and one which must be 
 faced at once. It was not a question of the value 
 of the shell, or of Hannah's willingness that the 
 child should have it, but of the lesson involved 
 which was just the same as though a million dol- 
 lars had been taken. 
 
 At last he felt he had a solution to his present 
 problem. At any rate, it was worth trying and he 
 hoped for the best. He remembered that Willa
 
 90 THE PROBLEM 
 
 was learning to read. Before she was three years 
 old she had learned the letters from her colored 
 blocks with which she played, and during the past 
 year she had read her First Reader nearly through. 
 When morning came, he took her on his knee in his 
 study, took down the Bible, and explained to her 
 that if he should give her that book it would be 
 hers; but, if she took it without asking him it 
 would still be his, and she would be stealing. The 
 use of two or three illustrations enabled her to see 
 that there was a difference between receiving some- 
 thing as a gift, and stealing, or taking, the same 
 thing. Then, he gently said, "What book is this, 
 Willa?" 
 
 "It's de Bible," she promptly answered. 
 
 "Who gave us the Bible? Whose words do we 
 find in it?" he asked. 
 
 "Dod's words." 
 
 "Now, I want to show you something," he said, 
 turning to the Ten Commandments, from which he 
 picked out the seventh one and asked her to look at 
 it with him. With a little help in sounding the 
 letters, Willa was able to read the commandment 
 for herself. When she had finished, he said, "Now, 
 what does that say, Willa?" 
 
 "Thou s'alt not steal," she read. 
 
 "And who said that? Who tells us that we 
 must not steal?" he asked. 
 
 "Dod. O, papa, me didn't know Dod said not 
 to steal. Baby never steal aden, papa, never. What 
 else does Dod say?"
 
 NEW LESSONS TAUGHT 91 
 
 "I think this is lesson enough for this morning, 
 dear. But another time you come to papa when 
 you want to know if something is right or wrong, 
 and papa will tell you. You won't forget, will 
 you?" 
 
 "No, papa, me always 'member what Dod said," 
 she answered. 
 
 "And you are sorry that you took the shell from 
 Hannah?" he asked. 
 
 "Me didn't tate it from Hannah. Me toot it 
 from de bastit," said Willa. 
 
 The big man tried to keep from smiling as he 
 said, "I know, dear, that the shell was in the basket, 
 but it belonged to Hannah, you know, and you are 
 sorry aren't you?" 
 
 "Me tate it straight back, papa, and me tell 
 Hannah baby didn't know what Dod said," an- 
 swered Willa. 
 
 The Doctor felt relieved. This was just what 
 he had been leading up to, and rather feared lest 
 she find the task a hard one. He now saw that her 
 dread of displeasing God was so great that the 
 embarrassment of confessing her fault to Hannah 
 seemed trivial indeed. 
 
 As the Doctor took the shell from his pocket 
 and gave it to her, he folded her in his arms for a 
 moment, and then said, "Now you take this to 
 Hannah and tell her all about it, and then God 
 will be pleased with Willa, again." 
 
 "But Dod tan't spe't a little dirl lite me to know 
 all dat's in a dreat bid Bible, tan He, papa?"
 
 92 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "No, but he does want her to learn, and to do 
 the best she knows, doesn't He?" 
 
 "O' tourse, and me never do it den, papa," she 
 said, earnestly. 
 
 "Papa knows you won't. Now run along like a 
 little lady," said the Doctor. 
 
 As Willa ran out, she passed her mother and 
 Mabel in the kitchen as though nothing unusual 
 had happened. She did not know that, in the 
 meantime, her mother had been down to Hannah's, 
 had told her all about it, and asked her when Willa 
 should come not to give her the shell lest the les- 
 son learned might soon be forgotten. Knowing 
 as they did how fond Hannah was of Willa, both 
 Mrs. Warren and the Doctor feared that in her 
 pity for the child she might be tempted to do the 
 very thing which she ought not to do, and hence it 
 was agreed between them that Hannah should be 
 prepared. The result was that in less than five 
 minutes Willa was back, bright and happy, and 
 eating one of Hannah's caraway cookies. No one 
 referred to the incident, but the remembrance of it 
 stayed in the minds of all, especially in the mind of 
 Willa, who never forgot the lesson that her father 
 had so tenderly taught her that morning.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE INVITATION 
 
 , MARGARET, what shall I do?" 
 cried Mabel. 
 
 Mrs. Warren glanced down the 
 pathway and saw her friend coming 
 toward the house, wearing an excited, eager ex- 
 pression on her face. Willa ran along by her side, 
 saying, "Don' go, Auntie Mabel. P'ease don' go." 
 Mrs. Warren caught Willa's words, and, look- 
 ing at the open letter in Mabel's hands, said: 
 "They haven't sent for you to begin work, have 
 they?" 
 
 "No, it's uncle Dick. Just listen!" 
 And Mabel proceeded to read aloud the letter 
 which had completely upset her, and which ran as 
 follows : 
 
 "MY DEAR MABEL: 
 
 Wife and I have a plan. It's about you, only 
 you are to have nothing to say concerning it. You 
 have only to help in carrying it out. Here is the 
 plan, and you just see if it isn't the jolliest one that 
 could be thought of." 
 
 "If that doesn't sound just like uncle Dick!" 
 said Mabel, and then she continued : 
 
 "As soon as you can straighten things out there, 
 if they must be straightened, you pack up your 
 
 93
 
 94 THE PROBLEM 
 
 duds and come out to spend the winter with us. It 
 will do you more good than anything else in the 
 world, and to show you that we do not mean to 
 take 'no' for an answer, we are enclosing check for 
 $200. That will get you anything you need, and 
 buy your ticket. There will be nothing more for 
 you to think of until you get here. 
 
 "We are thinking that you will probably start 
 by the ist of October, anyway. You just tell that 
 place that wants you for matron that you can't 
 and won't take it, or at least not until another 
 spring. If they choose to hold the offer open until 
 then, well and good. If not, that settles it. You 
 must come anyway. 
 
 "Lots of love from 
 
 "UNCLE DICK." 
 
 "There !" exclaimed Mabel, with a sigh as she 
 threw herself into one of the easy chairs on the 
 porch. "What shall I do?" 
 
 "Do?" answered Margaret. "There is only one 
 thing to do and that is to go, of course. It will do 
 you so much good, Mabel. It will be the time of 
 your life." 
 
 Willa, not understanding the full purport of the 
 letter or even of her mother's answer, ran to her 
 mother, saying, "P'ease, mama, don' send auntie 
 Mabel way." 
 
 "Bless you, dear, mama is not sending her 
 away," said her mother, who then took Willa on 
 her knee and explained the kindness of the uncle,
 
 THE INVITATION 95 
 
 the good the change would do auntie Mabel; and 
 then, appealing to the child's sense of unselfishness, 
 she led her to see that it was for Mabel's good, and 
 the more they loved her, the more they should want 
 her to go. 
 
 The child on seeing the situation, slipped from 
 her mother's knee and went slowly to Mabel's side. 
 Stretching up both plump arms to encircle Mabel's 
 neck, she said: 
 
 "Willa wants auntie Mabel go, too. Willa 
 wants her to be happy and well, and has f'owers 
 all winter, an' dood time ev'y day, and then auntie 
 Mabel'll come back some other day?" she asked, 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Yes, dear," answered Mabel folding her arms 
 tightly about Willa and kissing her. 
 
 "But what will auntie Mabel do without you?" 
 she asked tenderly. "Will you come with me?" 
 
 "Why, Willa touldn't go. Willa dot to teep 
 papa and mama tompany. Who'd yub mama's 
 headache way when papa's gone? And who'd 
 det papa's s'ippers for him, and do all the other 
 fings?" 
 
 "Precious!" exclaimed Mabel, still holding her. 
 "Auntie Mabel forgot, didn't she, dear, that papa 
 and mama couldn't spare you?" 
 
 "Des she must have. She'll have to det a little 
 dirl o' her own, won't she, mama?" 
 
 Willa at that moment espied their team in the 
 distance, and ran away to meet it. 
 
 The Doctor on his arrival was soon told of Ma-
 
 96 THE PROBLEM 
 
 bel's good fortune, and he, too, endeavored to 
 make her feel that there was no alternative. The 
 trip would mean much to her, and he felt that uncle 
 Dick's invitation was simply God's plan for bless- 
 ing Mabel, and in his opinion she must not refuse. 
 
 Mabel seriously weighed the pro and con of the 
 situation, even though her heart was agreeing to 
 all that her friends said. At last it was decided 
 that she should write to the trustees of the "Home" 
 to see what they would say. September was al- 
 ready more than half gone. It was useless for her 
 to think of starting by the first of the following 
 month; and, even if she started by the middle, she 
 must shorten her visit in Woodrow, must leave by 
 the coming Saturday at the latest. This was Mon- 
 day. She felt that by Friday she should have an 
 answer informing her of whatever action the trus- 
 tees might choose to take. Until that letter came, 
 she felt she could not come to any final conclusion. 
 
 Em and Hallie were also written; for they, to 
 her, presented the greatest obstacle. How could 
 she leave them? was the question that she asked 
 herself many times a day. 
 
 Never were Mabel and Willa more vigilant in 
 watching the mails than they were during those 
 days that followed. Mabel realized how much 
 they meant to her. Secretly she had determined 
 that, unless the trustees of the "Home" were will- 
 ing to hold the position until spring, she would not 
 go to uncle Dick's. It was almost too much to ex- 
 pect, and yet, somehow, inside, she felt that an an-
 
 THE INVITATION 9? 
 
 swer in the affirmative would come. 
 
 The morning mail on Friday brought the looked 
 for letter, which read : 
 
 "DEAR Miss FAIRBANKS: 
 
 "Your letter of the 8th rec'd. and duly consid- 
 ered by the Board. Inasmuch as we look to you 
 for a permanent engagement at the "Home," when 
 you do undertake its duties, we have secured the 
 consent of our temporary supply, Mrs. Sullivan, to 
 remain during the winter. 
 
 "Trusting that this action meets your wishes, and 
 that the months spent in California may prove ben- 
 eficial to you, we are, 
 
 "Respectfully yours, 
 
 (Sd.) Sec." 
 
 "Weren't they good?" asked Mabel, emphasiz- 
 ing each word. 
 
 In the hours that followed, she was first happy 
 and then sad happy at the good fortune that had 
 befallen her, and sad at the thoughts of first leav- 
 ing these fond friends ; and then, a little later, her 
 two sisters and everything that had been a part of 
 her very life for so many years. She felt that she 
 must leave Woodrow on the following day. In 
 vain did the Doctor and Margaret urge her to stay 
 "just one more Sunday," as they said. No thought, 
 however, of accepting the invitation entered her 
 mind until she accidentally passed the door of 
 Margaret's room, where she saw Willa kneeling by
 
 98 THE PROBLEM 
 
 the side of her little bed and heard the honest, 
 childish voice as it said : 
 
 "O, Dod, I do wants auntie Mabel stay anuzzer 
 Sunday. P'ease, Dod, tell her to stay, 'tause auntie 
 Mabel'll mind you, but she won't mind us. Tell 
 her hard, Dod, so she'll be sure to hear. Amen." 
 
 The child still knelt with her head buried in 
 the white spread covering the little bed, and Mabel 
 passed on. 
 
 God had told her "hard," and Mabel would 
 stay. When alone with the Doctor and Margaret, 
 she told them of Willa's prayer and of her changed 
 plans. She would stay with them until Monday. 
 
 "I never saw a child with such faith in prayer 
 as she has," said Mabel, "and I won't be the means 
 of shaking that faith ; besides, I think I am rather 
 glad to help God to answer." 
 
 When Mrs. Warren told the good news to Wil- 
 la, she said: "I guess you are surprised and happy 
 now, aren't you?" 
 
 "O, I's happy, mama, but I ain't s'prised any, 
 'tause I jest told Dod 'bout it, and asked Him to 
 tell auntie Mabel to stay, and I knew He would 
 do it somehow or uzzer." 
 
 The confident tone itself made both her com- 
 panions think of that verse : "All things whatso- 
 ever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall re- 
 
 ceive."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 OLD MEMORIES 
 
 DR. LIVERMORE spent his vacation 
 at his old home in Springdale. He had 
 heard of a good opening in Canton, 
 and was to go to his new field early in 
 September. 
 
 One day during his stay at home, his father 
 came to his room and the two had a long talk to- 
 gether. The young doctor stood with his elbow 
 resting on the middle sash of one of the windows. 
 He watched his father carefully as he paced back 
 and forth, both hands tucked deep into his pockets, 
 while between his teeth was a butt of a cigar, which, 
 if allowed to burn much longer, would endanger 
 his stubby mustache. However, the old man kept 
 on, apparently unmindful that a spark remained 
 at the end of the one cigar in which he daily in- 
 dulged. 
 
 At heart, the old man was not one whit more 
 temperate than many other men who daily indulge 
 in a half dozen or more; for, the truth is, at one 
 time he was a cigar fiend, and had only ceased to 
 be such at the strict command of his family phy- 
 sician, who discovered that the man was already 
 suffering from a "tobacco heart." The man had 
 used tobacco in some form ever since he could re- 
 member, and it was a mystery to all why his only 
 
 99
 
 ioo THE PROBLEM 
 
 son, reared in such an atmosphere, had not fallen 
 a victim to the habit. On the other hand, Henry, 
 all through his college days, had stood the test ; in 
 fact, it was rather repulsive to him. Possibly, he 
 had seen so much of it at times when his mother 
 was saving in every conceivable way, in order that 
 he himself might finish the college course which he 
 had begun, that his eyes had been opened to the 
 saving of money on the one hand and the burning 
 of it on the other ; or possibly it was all this, inten- 
 sified by his having unintentionally overheard when 
 a young lad the conversation of two ladies for 
 whom he had great admiration and respect, the re- 
 mark of one being: "If men who use tobacco only 
 half realized how unclean it makes them seem to 
 others and how offensive the smell is, I am sure 
 they never would have begun." Whether one or 
 all of these reasons played a part in influencing the 
 the young man, he certainly never wavered. 
 
 On this day in question, as the father paced back 
 and forth in his son's room, he halted on the hearth 
 to knock the ashes from his cigar. As he did so, 
 he noticed one of the pictures on Henry's mantle. 
 The man stood staring at the face of a child, ap- 
 parently, three or four years of age. After looking 
 at it intently for several seconds, he took it from 
 the mantle, and carried it to the window in order 
 to get a closer view. Henry watched him intently. 
 The picture was an exact likeness of Willa, and the 
 one Henry had brought from Woodrow. Not a 
 word had been said by him concerning any re-
 
 OLD MEMORIES 101 
 
 semblance he had discovered ; and yet, he had pur- 
 posely left the photograph on his mantle to see if 
 another might find the same resemblance. Several 
 minutes passed. 
 
 "Where did you get this?" the old man asked, 
 almost gruffly. 
 
 "O, that picture? That is Willa Warren, the 
 Doctor's little girl," Henry answered, lightly. "She 
 is one of the brightest little tots I ever saw," he 
 added, eyeing his father, sharply. 
 
 "Dr. Warren's, eh? Well, who's the mother?" 
 asked the old man. 
 
 "That's a funny question. She is Dr. Warren's 
 wife, of course," answered Henry, as though no 
 thought of the true purport of his father's ques- 
 tion had entered his mind. 
 
 "Humph ! Let her be his wife, but who was she 
 before she was married?" 
 
 "Miss Margaret Holway, only child of one of 
 the bankers at Ripley," Henry answered. 
 
 "Mighty strange !" exclaimed his father. 
 
 "What's strange?" quiried Henry, innocently. 
 
 "Why, the likeness, boy the likeness!" 
 
 "What likeness, father?" asked Henry. 
 
 "O, the deuce, boy! Look at that now. Then 
 look at this," he said, drawing from his pocket a 
 childish picture of his sister Emily. 
 
 This is what Henry had wanted. He had 
 wished to see the two together. 
 
 "They do look alike. How strange !" he said. 
 
 "Strange? I don't see how any child could look
 
 102 THE PROBLEM 
 
 more like another than this looks like little Emily. 
 Are you sure there is no mistake?" he asked, 
 eagerly. 
 
 "I am very sure, father. Now that you, too, have 
 seen the resemblance I confess that I noticed it one 
 day when I was in Woodrow and the folks in Rip- 
 ley. Since my return I have looked for this picture 
 of aunt Em, but could not find it, so I left this one 
 of Willa out, for I wanted you to see it. But 
 there is no mistake, nothing on which to build. One 
 day I found the family Bible of the Doctor's, and 
 looked back over all the names entered, and there 
 was not one in any way connected with our family. 
 I have since heard a good deal of the Holways, and 
 it is no use; there is not the slightest ground for 
 hope, but I never saw a dearer child, and never 
 parents who loved a child more," answered Henry. 
 
 A sigh was his father's only answer. He passed 
 Willa's picture to Henry, and replaced that of his 
 sister in his inner vest pocket. 
 
 "I would like to see her," he at last exclaimed. 
 "It seems as though a child who looks so much like 
 Em must be like her, too. A child never lived with 
 more winning ways than Emily Livermore had 
 when she was the age of this one. Perhaps I no- 
 ticed them more than most brothers would have 
 because she was a doll to me. Why, I was twenty 
 when Emily was born, and she thought so much of 
 her "Bud" as she used to call me. We never had 
 a break until that pennyweight came along. 
 What a fool I was! I thought I knew my little
 
 OLD MEMORIES 103 
 
 Em, but I didn't, I didn't. I thought if father and 
 I stood firm on the property, it would hold her, 
 but she loved him loved him ! If I could only 
 find her!" the old man said, shaking his head and 
 burying his face in his hands. 
 
 The old man rambled on, apparently unmind- 
 ful of his son's presence, who, with all his interest 
 and sympathy could not comprehend his father's 
 feelings when, for a moment, against the horizon 
 he thought he had detected the ship of hope headed 
 toward him, only to discover that what seemed so 
 promising was only the outspread wings of a dis- 
 tant bird on his way to that mysterious "realm of 
 somewhere." Would it ever return?
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 MUTUAL FRIENDS 
 
 YOUNG Henry Livermore, M. D., had 
 been in Canton a week, and thus far 
 had boarded at one of the two hotels 
 which the place afforded. Both because 
 Henry was naturally a lover of home life and be- 
 cause of his not overcrowded pocketbook, he then 
 made inquiries regarding good board in either a 
 private family or some respectable boarding house. 
 Several places were recommended, but as the name 
 of "Mrs. Brackett" was mentioned more frequent- 
 ly than any other, he called to see her. 
 
 Mrs. Brackett was a widow about forty-five 
 years of age, fleshy, light complexioned, and one 
 who knew so well how to cook a meal for hungry 
 men and women that her extra rooms were never 
 long vacant, nor her table lonesome for lack of 
 company. The young man was not long in engag- 
 ing both room and board, and promised to move 
 on the following day, which he did, little dream- 
 ing at the time, nor in fact for several days after- 
 ward, the nature of the surprise that awaited him. 
 Nevertheless, the day came when he learned that 
 two of Mrs. Brackett's boarders were none other 
 than Emily and Hallie Fairbanks of Ripley; and 
 even then, several days passed before the three dis- 
 covered that they had friends in common. The 
 
 104
 
 MUTUAL FRIENDS 105 
 
 discovery certainly tended to form a cord of friend- 
 ship between them stronger, perhaps, than it would 
 otherwise have been. Many things they had of 
 common interest. One subject was ever a welcome 
 one to all the subject of Willa Warren; for the 
 three had seen and known her, and more than that, 
 had loved her. 
 
 Before long Dr. Livermore learned through oth- 
 ers of the great sorrow that had so recently befallen 
 the two sisters, which accounted for the black they 
 continually wore. Possibly the knowledge of this 
 trouble under which the two girls bore up so brave- 
 ly had a part to play in increasing the interest 
 which he soon had in them. The young man con- 
 scientiously tried to be impartial. During the fall 
 months, when the leaves were at the height of 
 their glory especially to one who had not visited 
 Woodrow in autumn if he was called on a Sat- 
 urday morning to drive a few miles into the coun- 
 try, he invited the Misses Fairbanks to accompany 
 him. By no outward sign did he show preference 
 for the company of either, but secretly for he 
 dared not admit it even to himself, he found he 
 possessed a deeper interest in Emily than even he 
 himself would wish. Was he not simply waiting 
 until he should be in a position financially to ask 
 another girl to marry him ? Had he not long felt 
 more than a passing interest in Madeline Lamson? 
 What did this new interest mean? Did he not 
 know his own mind? Was he fickle? What was 
 the trouble ?
 
 io6 THE PROBLEM 
 
 Again and again, he asked himself these ques- 
 tions. He must wait and see. In the meantime he 
 felt thankful that the step, which many times he 
 had longed to take, had never been taken; for, if 
 it should prove that he had been mistaken in the 
 past, he would have the satisfaction of knowing 
 that he had not wronged another. In the weeks 
 that followed, Dr. Livermore kept a close watch 
 of himself, and perhaps an equally close watch of 
 Miss Emily. 
 
 The young man soon met with favor throughout 
 the town of Canton. He was invited to all the 
 social functions; but when he discovered that his 
 two friends were never present, he wondered if 
 they were not invited, or if they shrank from going 
 into public so soon after the sorrow that had come 
 into their lives. He watched for some remark to 
 be dropped that might throw light on the subject, 
 but none came. Finally, he began to be numbered 
 among the absent; outwardly, by reason of a sud- 
 den call from a distance, when in reality he was 
 merely driving to Four Corners and back, or to 
 Maple Grove and back. 
 
 Only two people, however, even suspected the 
 carrying out of this little part by the young Doc- 
 tor. At school Emily and Hallie invariably heard 
 these social events discussed, both previous to and 
 the day following. If the young man was absent, 
 the fact was always, unintentionally, made known 
 to them. Why should they think of this little act 
 of caprice on his part? Neither could have told,
 
 MUTUAL FRIENDS 107 
 
 and yet they felt sure they were right, and so they 
 were, although the people of Canton were much 
 longer in guessing the truth. 
 
 Before Mabel's departure they insisted on her 
 spending a week with them, which visit resulted in 
 Mabel, also, meeting Dr. Livermore. Under the 
 conditions, he scarcely seemed a stranger to her, 
 even at first, so attracted had they both been to the 
 town of Woodrow, where such happy, helpful 
 weeks for both had been spent. It was already the 
 middle of October, and this last week of Mabel's 
 went all too quickly. The two sisters certainly 
 made the most of mornings and nights, as well as 
 the brief noon hours. However, betwixt and be- 
 between, Mabel had no time to be lonely; for 
 nearly everyone in the house felt some desire to 
 have a part in the entertainment of this elder sis- 
 ter who thus far had seen so little real pleasure, 
 and Dr. Livermore was no exception. He had the 
 advantage over the others, however, for he was 
 able to let her get glimpses here and there about 
 the town, and together they had a chance to com- 
 pare it with their loved Woodrow. There was no 
 simple pleasure that Mabel could put before driv- 
 ing. It seemed strange to her now that she should 
 be having drives in Canton when she had thought 
 that this season's pleasure in that direction was over 
 on her departure from Woodrow. 
 
 The people at Mrs. Brackett's took it merely as 
 a matter of fact this friendship between Dr. Liv- 
 ermore and the two young ladies in black. Some
 
 io8 THE PROBLEM 
 
 had it that they were relatives, some this, some 
 that, but one good old Sallie Simmons said: "It's 
 jist a common sinse sort o' a likin' fer one anither." 
 However, if that were the case, there was still a 
 mystery to solve, and that was, "For which one of 
 the girls in black was the Doctor's 'common sinse 
 likin' ' the stronger?" 
 
 Thus had Mabel found them, and thus she left 
 them. When the time of separation came, not one 
 of them could speak. Was good awaiting them, 
 or was ill lying ahead in their pathway to be en- 
 countered and battled with before they next should 
 meet? Each knew that this thought was in the 
 minds of the others, and the knowledge, blended 
 with her own thoughts, made speech impossible. 
 
 Who so hardened, who so far down, that he 
 cannot hear even the echo of a note of love, wheth- 
 er sounded on the mountain top, or down in the 
 valley? Whether sounded by human lips, or simply 
 by the passing of a spirit of unity across the heart- 
 strings of one he loves?
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 AT UNCLE DICK'S 
 
 ON the day before Thanksgiving, Mrs. 
 Warren had her first long letter from 
 Mabel. In this letter she had more 
 than the usual interest, and could scarcely 
 wait for an opportunity to read it aloud to the 
 Doctor. It read: 
 
 "DEAREST MARGARET: 
 
 "Forgive me for not writing you a real letter be- 
 fore, but things have moved so rapidly I could not 
 seem to get to it. Besides, I scarcely knew how to 
 begin, and I confess that I do not, now. However, 
 I suppose it may as well be at the beginning and 
 then you will understand. 
 
 "I arrived on the 2yth. Uncle Dick, aunt Mary, 
 and Cousin Fred met me, and brought me to their 
 home which is indeed a most beautiful one. I had 
 to rest for a few days, of course, and Fred cer- 
 tainly kept me from being homesick. He is only 
 sixteen, but almost as tall as the Doctor, with long, 
 thin arms and legs, and naturally awkward as you 
 would expect any boy of that age and size to be, 
 but the best boy and the funniest one you ever saw. 
 He has a fine face and a good head, so just wait 
 until he gets a few more years over him, and the 
 corresponding pounds to go with them, and he will 
 
 109
 
 no THE PROBLEM 
 
 be a 'star' all right. 
 
 "Well, so much for that. When I had been 
 here a week, uncle wanted me to go to Los An- 
 geles with him, as he had business to attend to. 
 Over and over again I had heard them speak of a 
 'Willard Irving' over there, and I naturally in- 
 quired who he was. They told me that he was a 
 promising 'young old bach' with whom Uncle Dick 
 was greatly pleased, and with whom he had many 
 business relations. I further learned that he was 
 connected with some corporation in Los Angeles 
 in which Uncle Dick was an owner and also a direc- 
 tor. 
 
 "Well, we went. Uncle had taken me to 
 two or three pla.ces, when he looked at his watch 
 and found that it was 1 1 130. He left me at a 
 hotel, while he went to see Willard and, if possible, 
 get him to come to lunch with us. Uncle started 
 and, knowing that I was to meet a stranger and a 
 friend of my uncle's, I dug into my bag for my 
 comb, and in the next few minutes made myself as 
 presentable as a good wash and combing could 
 make me. When that was done, I went to the 
 window and looked out. I heard footsteps and 
 then voices uncle's and another. I listened but 
 had no time for thought before the door opened, 
 and Margaret, don't think I am lying or crazy or 
 dreaming, but uncle's friend, 'Willard Irving' is 
 Clifford Clifford Illsley. 
 
 "I can't tell it all, Margaret, but you can 
 imagine what the next moments were.
 
 AT UNCLE DICK'S in 
 
 "Uncle Dick stood back and stared. I never 
 saw a man so surprised in his life. We had to go 
 back and tell him all before he could grasp it, and 
 when he did, he said: 'The name, Willard? 
 'What's that?' 
 
 ' 'Willard' is my middle name, and 'Irving' my 
 mother's maiden name. I used my own until one 
 year in Chicago, the year I came to Los Angeles, 
 when another fellow had a name just like it, and 
 he got into trouble. His name was in all the pa- 
 pers till I was sick of the sight of it; I was afraid 
 some people might think it was I. When I came 
 here, I wanted to make a go of it, and I did not 
 want to be handicapped by a name, so I took the 
 Willard Irving one. I have wanted a lot of times 
 to tell you, but it did not seem necessary; besides, 
 when you talked of your niece, and her possible 
 coming, I did not dare for fear you might tell her, 
 and then I knew she would never come. We we 
 had a foolish little quarrel, you know, explained 
 Clifford. 
 
 " 'Quarrel, eh?' said uncle, looking straight at 
 me until my face got so red I thought I should sink 
 through the floor, and yet I did not want to; for, 
 Margaret, it did seem good to see Clifford, and to 
 know that he has made good and has the respect of 
 everyone around here. I am sorry about the name, 
 of course, and yet if it were not for his having hid- 
 den behind it, we probably would never have met; 
 for I certainly would never have come had I known 
 he was here.
 
 H2 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "I guess, Margaret, I was as much to blame as 
 he, and I am so glad it is over. Anyhow, you may 
 as well know the 'worst' or the 'best,' whichever 
 you care to call it; for we have agreed 'not to dis- 
 agree,' but to 'agree;' to forget our childish fool- 
 ishness, and he insists on our making Christmas 
 our wedding day. Of course, you will know at 
 once just what uncle says, where he thinks so much 
 of Clifford, and where he wants me out here, any- 
 way. 
 
 "I tell them we must wait until Easter. How- 
 ever, I have just written the trustees of the 'Home,' 
 asking them to withdraw my name from their list. 
 
 "My! How little I dreamed of anything like 
 this when I came ! 
 
 "You don't blame me, do you Margaret? You 
 know that you and Hunt always liked Clifford, and 
 truly, Margaret, he has improved a lot. I told 
 him so, and he stuck to it that if he had, it was 
 his thinking of me and his being with my uncle 
 where he so often heard of me that kept up his 
 courage to fight it out. 
 
 "It was so strange that he knew almost at the 
 first about their eastern relations, but all the time 
 they never suspected that he was from a section 
 farther east than Chicago. 
 
 "If I do stay here, Margaret, you and Hunt 
 and Willa will surely have to visit me. 
 
 "I haven't been able to decide anything definite 
 yet, except that we are to be married, and I am to 
 have my engagement ring on Thanksgiving Day.
 
 AT UNCLE DICK'S 113 
 
 I wonder if the turkey will taste any better because 
 of it? 
 
 "There, dear, I must stop. Give my love to the 
 Doctor and Willa, and know that you have your 
 own big share, from 
 
 "MABEL. 
 
 "P. S. O, if mother could only know ! But per- 
 haps she does."
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE ANGEL'S MISTAKE 
 
 DR. WARREN'S house was less than 
 an eighth of a mile from the school- 
 house, and seldom a recess came when 
 Willa did not run home to see her 
 mother, either to tell her something that had hap- 
 pened, or to get an apple, cookie, or piece of gin- 
 ger-bread. From the time she first entered the 
 doors of learning, nothing grieved her more than 
 to miss any lesson. Certainly, it was unusual for 
 her to be begging to stay at home as she was doing 
 one morning in early June, the summer that she 
 herself would be six; in fact, the very month. 
 
 "Mama, I don't want to go to school. I want 
 to see the baby, and I want papa to bring him home 
 where he belongs," wailed Willa. 
 
 "But, dear, you cannot see the baby this morning, 
 and you know that Si and Hannah didn't have any 
 little boy or girl at all to keep them company," her 
 mother reasoned. 
 
 "But I know it's our baby, mama," she said be- 
 tween her sobs. "I've prayed and prayed every 
 night since I was at grandma's that summer and 
 saw Jennie, and now God sent me one, and the an- 
 gels, " here she sobbed aloud as though her heart 
 would break "the angels" another sob broke 
 forth, "came at night," she continued, "and, 'twas 
 
 114
 
 THE ANGEL'S MISTAKE 1 1 5 
 
 dark, an', boohoo, got the wrong house. They 
 meant it for me but they couldn't see," she 
 added jerkily, between her sobs. 
 
 Mrs. Warren sat with the child in her lap for 
 fully half an hour. Her reasoning powers were 
 sorely taxed in trying to reconcile Willa to the pres- 
 ent situation, and still have her hold her faith in 
 prayer. At last, the Doctor arrived, and Willa pre- 
 sented her case to him, blaming the darkness for 
 the great mistake made, and saying she wished it 
 was never night and never dark. 
 
 "Now, just think, Willa," he said kindly. "You 
 and the other children, and we big people, too, have 
 the sunshine all day long, don't we?" 
 
 "Y-e-s," she answered. 
 
 "And while we are having it, the little boys and 
 girls on the other side of the world are sound 
 asleep. It is all dark there, then, for they are hav- 
 ing their night; but it wouldn't be fair to leave 
 them in the dark all the time, would it?" he asked. 
 
 "N-o." 
 
 "You see the sun comes to visit us, and we have 
 day; and then, it is only fair for it to go to visit 
 them, and give them some day, isn't it? You 
 wouldn't want to keep it all the time, and never let 
 the other little boys and girls have any, would 
 you?" 
 
 "N-o, but but but the baby," she said, brok- 
 enly, her lips trembling. 
 
 "Don't you see, Willa, if the angels had left 
 it here, we would have had two, you and the new
 
 n6 THE PROBLEM 
 
 one, and Si and Hannah still would have had none 
 at their house. You love Si and Hannah, and you 
 wouldn't want to treat them that way, would you ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "No, only, don't you see, papa, I asked God 
 to send me one, and " 
 
 "And He did send one to be your nearest neigh- 
 bor. Just think how often you can see him, and 
 before long he will be able to play with you." 
 
 "How long, papa?" she asked, anxiously. 
 
 "In two or three years he will be running 
 around, but long before that he will be able to play 
 with you, and to know what you say to him," an- 
 swered the Doctor. 
 
 "What you s'pose they'll call him, papa?" Willa 
 asked in a tone which told her father at once that 
 the grievance was fast disappearing. 
 
 "I don't know yet," he answered. 
 
 "Well, I think they ought to name him Mabel" 
 said Willa, emphatically. 
 
 Both the Doctor and his wife laughed, which 
 made Willa add, still more seriously: 
 
 "Well, I do, papa, for Auntie Mabel, you know, 
 'cause I think she liked babies awful well." 
 
 "But 'Mabel' is a girl's name, and people nev- 
 er give to little boys the same names they do to 
 girls. Didn't you know that?" 
 
 "I don't see why. A name's a name, isn't it?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Yes, a name is a name, but you wouldn't want 
 us to call you 'Tommy' would you?" he answered.
 
 THE ANGEL'S MISTAKE 117 
 
 "Of course not," she laughed. "I didn't think 
 o' that," and her tone alone conveyed the idea that 
 she was satisfied her argument had failed. 
 
 The next moment they heard the sound of boys 
 and girls at play. They knew it was recess; and, 
 taking advantage of her changed mood, they per- 
 suaded her to join the others for the remainder of 
 the forenoon, and assured her that she should see 
 the baby before night. 
 
 It is needless to say, for that day at least, Wil- 
 la's mind was on the baby more frequently than 
 on her lessons. She even took out her tiny slate, 
 bought for her in Ripley, the frame of which was 
 padded with red felt and fastened with black cord, 
 giving it a most distinguished appearance in the lit- 
 tle school-house of Woodrow. This had been a 
 source of delight to Willa, as long ago she had 
 manifested an unusual talent for drawing. On this 
 particular afternoon she drew on it what to her 
 seemed a very fine picture of a baby, and beneath 
 it she printed. 
 
 "JOSUF CAMBEL," 
 
 in not very regular letters; nevertheless, she was 
 proud of her accomplishment and had to carry it 
 home for her father and mother to see. They al- 
 ways followed the rule of, "Praise where you can; 
 censure where you must," and now they followed 
 the first part of the precept, for her efforts were 
 certainly worthy of praise, notwithstanding the 
 fact that they provoked laughter. 
 
 "So you've named the baby, have you?" asked
 
 n 8 THE PROBLEM 
 
 the Doctor. 
 
 "Yes," answered Willa, "if he's got to have a 
 boy's name, I thought 'Josuf' was the little boy in 
 the Bible that his father loved so well he made him 
 that nice, pretty coat. Don't you remember?" 
 
 "Yes, I remember." 
 
 "He made it 'cause he loved him so much, an' 
 I knew that Si and Hannah'd love this baby, and 
 it sounded good when I said 'Josuf Cambel,' don't 
 you think so?" she asked. 
 
 "Sounds fine. You didn't get it spelled just 
 right, but it sounds about the same," said the Doc- 
 tor. "You find your little story book and see how 
 it is there." 
 
 Away Willa ran, soon coming back with her 
 book opened to the right place, saying aloud : 
 
 "J-o-s-e-p-h, O, yes. I forgot. Let me change 
 it" " 
 
 "Don't rub that out," cautioned the Doctor. 
 "We will take it down to show Hannah and Si. 
 You can print it the right way underneath. 
 Wouldn't that be better?" 
 
 Willa agreed that it would, and at once got her 
 pencil to work, carefully making the letters. Her 
 father cautioned her not to be too anxious over it, 
 as possibly Si and Hannah had already decided on 
 a name. 
 
 The result was, however, that Willa had her 
 wish, with the addition of a middle name ; and Jo- 
 seph Warren Campbell in due time made the ac- 
 quaintanceship of the people of Woodrow.
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 ECHOES FROM CANTON 
 
 ABEL FAIRBANKS IRVING sat 
 in her room up-stairs holding a letter 
 she had just received from her sister, 
 Emily, who was still in Canton. 
 
 "DEAREST MABEL: 
 
 "It is no use. You may as well make up your 
 mind to it first as last. You know there is no rea- 
 son in the world why you cannot come. If Clif- 
 ford got along without you all those other years, he 
 surely can get along now for six weeks while you 
 come to be with me over my wedding. 
 
 "I admit that I was not with you, but that does 
 not excuse you in the least, for you went out there 
 just on a visit; and then did the thing up so quick- 
 ly that I had no chance to go, besides, it came right 
 in the middle of the school year. 
 
 "We are to be married in the early part of Sep- 
 tember, but are not sure of the day yet. I'll have 
 my summer vacation to get ready in. 
 
 "Henry's father wants us to be married at the 
 old home, and Mrs. Holway says she thinks we 
 ought to go to her house. She thinks mother would 
 like it so, and I am not sure but I shall decide in 
 her favor. That would be nearer 'home' than any 
 place.
 
 120 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "As you know, Henry and I have been saving 
 for the last three years, but we shall need all those 
 dollars to start our home with, so going to Cali- 
 fornia just for the sake of being married at your 
 house is out of the question. You can afford the; 
 trip as well as not, and ought to take it both for 
 your own sake and for ours. 
 
 "You understand, we are not to have any real 
 'wedding' at all. We are just going to be married 
 in our own quiet way, and save all expense that a 
 big 'show' would cost. I never did believe in them, 
 and Henry is as much averse to them as I. 
 
 "We have the dearest, dearest house rented. 
 Henry says we may buy it later if the owner will 
 sell. It is out about a mile, a one family house, 
 with stable, garden, and the most beautiful shrub- 
 bery on the lawn. It is to be newly painted, pa- 
 pered, and whitened, so it will surely shine when 
 it gets our new things in it. We only got it a week 
 ago. Henry has been trying for a month to make 
 the deal. For years it was occupied by two doubled 
 and twisted old maids, and this last year they both 
 died. A nephew who now owns it was thinking of 
 remodeling it into a two family house to rent, be- 
 lieving it would bring him in more money, but Hen- 
 ry finally won him over. I am so pleased about it. 
 
 "Won't we have fun settling, though? School 
 is only one week more, and then I shall be free, 
 free, free. Hooray for Em! I certainly must 
 keep the check rein tight or I shall run away with 
 myself I am so happy. I wonder if everyone feels
 
 ECHOES FROM CANTON 121 
 
 so? They must if they marry for love, mustn't 
 they? 
 
 "Will say 'good-night,' sister mine. You must 
 come, or I shall never forgive you. 
 
 "Heaps of love, 
 
 "EM." 
 
 Mabel read her sister's letter more than once, 
 alternating the reading with the sewing which rest- 
 ed on the top of her basket by the window. 
 
 "I'll see what Clifford thinks," she at last said, 
 as she broke off a fresh needle full of thread. "Let's 
 see. It is 3 130 now. He'll be here in another 
 hour." 
 
 Mabel had a dainty, attractive home, and every- 
 thing in it harmonized with the thought of comfort, 
 health, and happiness. Indeed, those three valu- 
 able assets had been added in abundance to Mabel's 
 life since her coming to visit Uncle Dick and her 
 marriage to Clifford. The fact that she was sep- 
 arated from her sisters and Margaret was her only 
 grievance. 
 
 The letter just read, and the thoughts of her 
 sister's approaching marriage caused her again to 
 go to old scenes and old friends, and more than all 
 to that time when days, and nights if necessary, 
 she was her mother's faithful watcher. In some 
 ways it seemed a hundred years ago, so different 
 were her surroundings and life now; and yet in 
 other ways it seemed only yesterday, so clearly did 
 it all come before her. Anxiously, she watched for
 
 122 THE PROBLEM 
 
 Clifford. Mabel still clung to the old name, al- 
 though he was still "Willard Irving" to the pub- 
 lic. He had, however, gotten into the way of 
 signing "C. Willard Irving," and the "C. Willard" 
 was correct. 
 
 When he did come, Mabel passed him Emily's 
 letter. 
 
 "Read it, Clifford," she said. 
 
 "Well?" he said, when he had done so and laid 
 the letter on the arm of his chair. 
 
 "That is what I am saying," she laughed back. 
 
 To Mabel it seemed that Clifford waited fully 
 five minutes before answering, but the clock did not 
 measure more than half that time. 
 
 "You don't know how I hate to have you go, 
 Mabe, but I don't want to be selfish about it," he 
 said. "You owe a duty to your sisters, and I owe 
 one to you; besides, dear," he added, as he rose 
 and went to her, "we know how next year it will 
 be impossible for you to go, so maybe " 
 
 "I hate to go, Clifford, just as much as you hate 
 to have me, and yet, I want to go. You can under- 
 stand, can't you?" 
 
 "I understand, Mabe." 
 
 "As you say, I shall be needed right here next 
 year. See what I have been making? Isn't it a 
 dear? It seems to me that I can't wait for the time 
 to come," she said, almost reverently. 
 
 "Nor I," he answered, smoothing her hair gent- 
 ly with his hands. 
 
 "I have not written the girls yet, and if I decide
 
 ECHOES FROM CANTON 123 
 
 to go, I shall not tell them until I get there. They 
 will be almost as glad as I. You ought to have 
 seen them the summer Margaret had Willa down 
 home for the first time. They were just in love 
 with her." 
 
 "How long ago was that?" he asked. 
 
 "Almost three years the summer mother died, 
 you know. She was four then, and the dearest 
 child I ever saw." 
 
 "She ought to be a dear. Her mother was a 
 treasure." 
 
 "That's what Margaret is, all right," answered 
 Mabel. 
 
 Clifford started, but caught himself in time to 
 keep from putting strange thoughts into Mabel's 
 mind. Soon after her arrival he had questioned 
 her carefully about the Doctor and Margaret, and 
 inquired if they now had any children. On being 
 told of Willa, he saw at once that Mabel was not 
 aware of the child's parentage; and, knowing on 
 what intimate terms the two women were, he was 
 convinced that Mrs. Warren preferred to keep the 
 secret, and he resolved then and there never to be 
 the one to betray his knowledge of it. 
 
 Again he and Mabel discussed the trip, the time 
 she better start; and, incidentally, the cost. Finally, 
 the following letter went back to Canton : 
 
 "DEAR LITTLE EM: 
 
 "Neither Clifford nor I can say 'no' to you at a 
 time like this.
 
 i2 4 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "I can only hope that your married life may be 
 as happy as mine has been so far; and the best of 
 it is, I grow happier every day. If we both had 
 not been two stubborn children, we need never have 
 had that break, but we have certainly made up for 
 it since. 
 
 "I rather like the idea of the ceremony taking 
 place at Mrs. Holway's. It was kind in her to 
 suggest it anyway. 
 
 "I can't tell yet just when I shall start. I only 
 know that Clifford and I are agreed that the trip 
 shall be taken. I have not had a chance yet to 
 tell Uncle Dick. Of course, he knows that you are 
 to be married soon. I do wish he could go with 
 me, but that is out of the question. 
 
 "I mean to bring Hallie back with me if such 
 a thing is possible, and I have reason to believe it 
 will be when I once see her. 
 
 "I do wish you could see our lawn now. If you 
 only could you surely would want to be married 
 right in the midst of our roses. We have over 
 thirty different kinds. They are simply beautiful. 
 
 "Clifford is calling to me so I must stop. Good- 
 night, my dear. Tell Hallie I am waiting for her 
 letter. 
 
 "Lots of love from 
 
 "MABEL."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 HER CUP RUNNETH OVER 
 
 1 
 
 morning of June lyth dawned 
 bright and clear. Willa was as busy as a 
 bee gathering flowers for nearly every 
 room. It was her seventh birthday, and 
 to her a birthday seemed almost as good as Christ- 
 mas. This year, however, something happened to 
 make her feel the day was better than any day she 
 had ever known ; and, more than that, that she had 
 the best grandpa and grandma a little girl ever had. 
 
 After Willa had arranged the flowers to the best 
 of her ability, her father and mother took her for 
 a drive, during which time, as though accidentally, 
 the Doctor reined Nell up toward the station, and 
 past the freight-house. 
 
 "O O ! Look ! Papa, mama, look !" screamed 
 Willa. 
 
 Her appeal to "look" was not needed by them, 
 for this was what they had been doing ever since 
 they came in sight of the place. 
 
 "O! O! O! Let me out papa, let me out!" 
 cried the child in ecstacy. 
 
 The cause of all this clamor on her part was 
 the sight of Si harnessing into a little dog-cart a 
 cream colored pony with heavy mane and tail. 
 
 "O ! O I" from time to time seemed all the child 
 125
 
 126 THE PROBLEM 
 
 could say. She scrambled out before her father 
 could get the wheels cramped, and ran straight to 
 the pony. 
 
 "Look out for her, Si. See he doesn't nip her," 
 cautioned the Doctor, but Trix, the new arrival, 
 only put his head down for Willa to pat him. 
 
 "Weren't they good to send him?" said Mar- 
 garet, "but that is just like father, anyway." 
 
 Mr. Holway had written a few days before 
 about this "rig-out" being for sale, telling them 
 that he was going to send it to Willa for a birth- 
 day present; and the day before a wire had reached 
 the Doctor, carrying the one word, "Shipped." 
 Consequently, they were prepared. 
 
 "Look at her. Do you suppose there is a hap- 
 pier child living than she is this minute?" asked the 
 Doctor, as Si and Willa climbed into the cart. 
 
 Another spectator of the scene had been little 
 red headed, freckled faced Jimmy Tucker, who, 
 when convinced that this wonder of wonders really 
 belonged to Willa, ran home as fast as his short, 
 fat legs could carry him. When near the house, 
 he roused them all by shouting, "Mama, grandma, 
 Alice, mama, grandma," all the way through the 
 yard and up the steps. Within the doors he ran 
 from one to the other, again calling all the names 
 he could think of, accompanied by a "Come, come, 
 Willa, pony, lookout, come quick." 
 
 His message delivered, he again ran out to fol- 
 low the pony, the cart, their owner, and Si; for 
 these had led the way, and the Doctor and his wife
 
 HER CUP RUNNETH OVER 127 
 
 kept behind. Like Jimmie, they found the sight 
 interesting. When in their own yard, Willa in- 
 sisted on her mother's joining her and driving down 
 to see Hannah, who was already on her piazza, 
 holding little Joseph in her arms, watching Willa 
 jouncing up and down, laughing, talking, and 
 swinging the reins at the same time. Some of her 
 happiness must necessarily be worked off, for she 
 could not hold it all. Willa's longing had at last 
 been realized. Never had she forgotten the ponies 
 she had seen at a circus two years before ; and nev- 
 er had she gotten over wishing for one. 
 
 To Willa's delight, Hannah was full of appreci- 
 ation, although no more so than Baby Joe, now a 
 year old, who had to reach out his chubby hand to 
 pat the pony, with a "Ugh, ugh," until Willa had 
 to jump out in order to be nearer the scene of ac- 
 tion, and to talk to Baby Joe himself. While she was 
 doing this, her mother discovered that Jimmie 
 Tucker was swinging himself on the back of the 
 cart. 
 
 "Why, Jimmie! Where did you come from?" 
 she called. 
 
 "I seen him first," was Jimmie's blunt reply, as 
 he dug his bare toes into the ground under him. 
 
 "Seen who?" she asked. 
 
 "The pony. I seen him 'fore Si got him off the 
 train," proudly answered Jimmie, feeling himself 
 quite a hero. 
 
 "O, Jimmie, come here," called Willa. "Isn't 
 he pretty?" she asked.
 
 128 THE PROBLEM 
 
 Jimmie did not need a second invitation; he was 
 soon beside Willa, and said, longingly, as he looked 
 at Trix, "I wish he's mine. When I get 
 big, I'll hev one." 
 
 "Never mind, Jimmie. We'll give you a ride 
 home, won't we, mama?" Willa said, soothingly. 
 
 "Of course. Come, get in, both of you," her 
 mother answered, cheerily. 
 
 Jimmie's face at that moment was all the pay 
 Mrs. Warren needed. She never forgot the ex- 
 pression it wore, which, as she told the Doctor af- 
 terward, reminded her of a freshly opened sun- 
 flower; and Jimmie never forgot the ride. 
 
 Before Willa went to bed that night she had to 
 write a letter of thanks to grandpa and grandma. 
 Faithfully she labored over this all important 
 letter. At last she carried the following to her 
 mother for approval : 
 
 Dear Grandpa and Grandma : I think you are 
 the very nisest foxes a little girl ever hed I wish I 
 could see you. Trix is a darlin he took mama an 
 me to ride and then he took papa but i went to. 
 I have to go coz hes mind. I thanks you milluns 
 
 an milluns lots of love an hear are your kises. 
 ******** 
 
 WILLA. 
 Com up an see me. 
 
 The letter was sent just as written and was treas- 
 ured by grandpa and grandma, who felt that they 
 loved the child as though she were their own.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 FOR ALL TIME 
 
 YOU take Emily May to be your law- 
 ful wedded wife, and do here promise 
 to love, honor, and cherish her in sick- 
 ness and health " 
 
 "I do," came the answer in the strong, clear 
 tones of Henry V. Livermore, M. D. ; and the 
 same response came from Emily May, when a sim- 
 ilar question had been asked of her. 
 
 Their plans for the wedding had been changed 
 entirely, after Mabel's arrival. Instead of either 
 Mrs. Holway's or Mr. Livermore's invitations 
 being accepted, it was decided that the marriage 
 should take place at their own home, which had 
 been a scene of excitement for the last few weeks. 
 Only relatives and the Holways were present; 
 but later, on the lawn, a reception was held, and it 
 seemed that all Canton marched in through one 
 gate, past the receiving line, the table of refresh- 
 ments, and out of the other. Surely no present 
 pupil, and na young man or woman who had been 
 numbered among the High School pupils during 
 the past four years, failed to be present if such a 
 thing was possible. 
 
 The bride looked as most brides look, only 
 more beautiful, because at that time she was the 
 last in Canton. All loved her, and love alone will 
 
 129
 
 i 3 o THE PROBLEM 
 
 make even a plain face beautiful, but Emily's had 
 too regular features and too clear a complexion to 
 be considered plain. She had always been called 
 pretty, but to-night she looked beautiful, in the 
 high, the true sense. From the time she entered the 
 room to the notes of Lohengrin, all eyes were on 
 her, and none gazed more earnestly than Henry's 
 father. Over and over again he said to himself, 
 "Emily Livermore, Emily Livermore, Little Em, 
 Little Sister, Emily, Emily." The name was the 
 same, and that surely comforted him. His Emily 
 had been light; this one was dark, but she was 
 "Emily Livermore" for all that. The old man 
 was happy, or as nearly so as he was ever likely 
 to be unless no, no. He dared not think of it. 
 When the bulk of the guests had gone, Emily went 
 up the stairs to don her traveling gown, for they 
 were to spend four days at Niagara. In saying 
 "good-by" the old man patted her on the shoulder 
 with the words, "Little Emily, our Emily," and 
 then he kissed her. 
 
 "You'll stop at home on your way back?" he 
 asked, eagerly. 
 
 "We'll stop, father," said Henry and Emily to- 
 gether. 
 
 The only regret expressed by those present was 
 that the Warren family could not be there, but 
 Mabel and Hallie, who were to remain at the 
 house while the bride and groom were gone, were 
 to start on their return for the town of Woodrow. 
 Mabel, from experience, and Hallie, from intui-
 
 FOR ALL TIME 131 
 
 tion, felt that the newly-married couple should get 
 used to their home life together without the pres- 
 ence of even sisters who loved them both. 
 
 Hallie was fast making preparations toward ac- 
 companying Mabel to California, and with that in- 
 tention had sent in her resignation as teacher. The 
 trustees, however, voted on a year's leave of ab- 
 sence, thus giving her an opportunity to return if 
 she wished. Sometimes the two were busy work- 
 ing on Hallie's clothes; sometimes putting differ- 
 ent rooms in order. The wedding presents, how- 
 ever, were in a room by themselves, and were left 
 for Emily and Henry to arrange and acknowledge 
 as they should see fit, after their return. Among 
 these presents, nothing had pleased Emily more 
 than a clock that had come in the Warren box, 
 bearing Willa's card written in her own childish 
 hand. The clock itself spoke of the giver, for the 
 long pendulum which measured the seconds, the 
 minutes, the hours consisted of a suspended swing 
 in which sat a rosy cheeked, curly haired girl ; and 
 neither Emily or the Doctor could look at it and 
 not think of their little friend, Willa. 
 
 Another that had attracted Emily's attention 
 was a large oil painting, a landscape portraying a 
 scene on a country road in Henry's home town, and 
 a card with the name, "Madaline Lamson." 
 
 "Who is that, Henry? No one I know," said 
 Emily, passing the card to him. He was not sur- 
 prised. He had seen the wrappings taken from the 
 painting, and knew at once from whom it came.
 
 i 3 2 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "No, you do not know her," he answered, "but 
 I will tell you frankly that she is the one who, as 
 a High School boy and a College boy I hoped some- 
 time to ask to marry me. She was a fine girl and 
 all right; and I thought the feeling I had for her 
 was love, until until I saw you, Emily, and and 
 you know the rest, don't you?" 
 
 "The rest, yes, but I didn't " 
 
 "No, dear. We were never engaged, I am 
 thankful to say, but so long as this has come," he 
 said, pointing to the picture, "I wanted you to 
 know the truth about it." 
 
 "Thanks, Henry. I'd like to know her. If you 
 liked her, I am sure I would like her, too." 
 
 "Perhaps sometime you may, but I think it 
 doubtful. I heard a few weeks ago that she was 
 engaged to a man in the West and was to be mar- 
 ried soon." 
 
 "O!" said Emily. "Well, we will write her a 
 note of thanks to show her that we appreciate this, 
 and then we will send her something when her 
 time comes, won't we?" she asked. 
 
 "Just as you say, dear," answered Henry.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 ONE HEART AND ONE MIND 
 
 *m If Y DEAR, DEAR CLIFFORD : 
 
 im /I "* dunk I should be perfectly 
 ^L/ happy if you were only here. You 
 
 JL -1_ can't know how much I miss you. 
 
 "We are at Margaret's. Hallie and I came on 
 the noon train yesterday. Started from Canton 
 almost as soon as Em and Henry got home. They 
 certainly make a dandy couple, but you have heard 
 so much of them, the wedding and the house that 
 now you will want to know about Margaret, the 
 Doctor, and Willa. 
 
 "If Henry and Em can only have as happy a 
 married life as Margaret and Hunt have had, it 
 will be blessed, indeed, and there is no reason why 
 they can't have it if they only keep level heads on 
 them, and keep their hearts right. 
 
 "Margaret and Hunt are so happy together that 
 I do believe they grow younger each year. Willa 
 seems the only one getting older, and three years 
 in a child certainly make a big difference. She is 
 just a darling. I cannot look at her without in 
 thought going ahead a few years, and thinking 
 what may be in store for us. You cannot know 
 how I want to see you, Clifford. 
 
 "I shall go back to Em's next week, and the 
 week after start for home. Of course, I would not 
 
 133
 
 134 THE PROBLEM 
 
 have this trip taken out of my life for anything, 
 but there is no place like 'home' Clifford, no mat- 
 ter where it is nor how humble it is. 
 
 "Willa is out now giving Hallie a ride in her 
 pony-cart. Willa drives the pony herself and she 
 can very nearly harness. I wish you could see 
 them. Hallie brought her camera and we shall 
 have a lot of pictures to show you when we get 
 there. She took one last night of Willa on her 
 pony's back; and in front of her sat Si's baby, a 
 little over a year old. They did look too dear for 
 anything. 
 
 "I forgot to tell you how well the Doctor and 
 Margaret have gotten along financially. There 
 are other doctors now, but Hunt is the leading 
 one for miles around. If there is a serious case 
 in any of the other towns, he is sent for. I am so 
 glad for them both. 
 
 "Margaret is beginning to have a few gray 
 hairs, but they don't seem to make her look a day 
 older. I suppose it is because the old-fashioned 
 fun in her is bubbling up underneath just the same 
 as ever. 
 
 "I must stop, for Margaret is calling me. We 
 are all going for a ride. Hunt bought a two seat- 
 ed carriage this summer, and he wants us to sam- 
 ple it. 
 
 "Good-by, dear. You know that I am just wait- 
 ing to be with you again, don't you? 
 
 "Give my love to Uncle Dick, auntie and Fred. 
 I hope they are taking good care of you. Tell
 
 ONE HEART AND ONE MIND 135 
 
 them if they don't I shall never forgive them. 
 "Good-by, again, and heaps of love from 
 
 "MABE." 
 
 After sealing and stamping the letter, Mabel 
 put it in her bag intending to post while they should 
 be out. 
 
 By the time she had gotten down stairs, Hallie 
 and Willa had Trix in his stall, and were already 
 on the rear seat of the carriage, in anticipation of 
 the longer ride with the others. Nell was on the 
 right of the pole, and "Pete," her mate, on the 
 left. The two looked almost exactly alike, with 
 the exception that the "dapples" as Willa called 
 them on Nell shaded a dark brown, and those on 
 Pete a light one. As Si hooked the tugs and hold- 
 backs, and slipped the reins through the saddle 
 rings, Nell and Pete first caressed and then nip- 
 ped each other in childlike play. 
 
 Margaret insisted that Mabel ride on the front 
 seat with the Doctor, in order to get a better view 
 of the places of interest which she had learned to 
 know on her other visits; and she herself joined 
 Willa and Hallie on the back seat. 
 
 After driving to the post office and mailing her 
 letter, Mabel noticed to her delight that the Doc- 
 tor headed the horses toward the Munson Road, 
 about which she had often told Hallie, when com- 
 paring it with Canton drives. The Doctor had 
 previously planned to take in "the square," going 
 by way of the road named above, past the Jewell
 
 136 THE PROBLEM 
 
 Lake, and out over the Graham Road. It was a 
 glorious day, and over two hours were spent in 
 covering the ground and admiring the scenery. The 
 Doctor had driven slowly on Mabel's account, lest 
 she grow overtired, but on her return, with face 
 burned by the afternoon sun, she forgot all fa- 
 tigue in finding a letter from Clifford, remailed 
 from Canton. She hurried to her room, slipped off 
 her shoes, and after building her a back with pil- 
 lows and cushions, climbed on the bed to read the 
 letter from the one she loved better than anyone 
 else in all the wide world. It read : 
 
 "Sunday evening. 
 "Mv DEAR LITTLE MABE: 
 
 "I am well. Don't worry about me. I am just 
 a little blue, that's all. I have been over to the 
 house to-day. The folks didn't want me to go, 
 but I wanted to see if Jim was tending the lawn as 
 he ought, and if everything inside was all right. 
 And, Mabe, I never knew before a house could 
 look so bare, so forsaken, without a woman in it. 
 There was every single room just as we had had 
 it, when it seemed so full of cheer, and to-day, I 
 felt there had been a funeral there. I saw then, 
 dear, as never before, that it is not the building nor 
 the things in it that makes the place 'home' to me, 
 but you, Mabe, and I know now that wherever you 
 were, in a hut or a palace, that place would be 
 'home' to me. You understand, don't you? 
 
 "The only comfort I have when I think of those
 
 ONE HEART AND ONE MIND 137 
 
 years apart, is that you could or would not have 
 come to me just so long as your mother needed 
 you. 
 
 "You have been gone six weeks now, and they 
 seem longer than any six years in the past. O, what 
 haven't these three years together done for us! 
 We know each other now, and we only thought we 
 knew before. What a difference it makes, doesn't 
 it, dear? 
 
 "Three weeks more and you will be home. Be 
 careful of yourself and do not get too tired. Good 
 night, my dear, and God bless you ! I never used 
 to pray much. I didn't feel like it until I lived with 
 you, but now I don't believe one waking hour 
 passes when I do not ask God to care for you and 
 to bring you back safely to me. 
 
 "Again, good night, and all the love a man 
 could possibly know for a woman, from 
 
 "CLIFFORD." 
 
 Mabel read and re-read the letter. She rear- 
 ranged the pillows and leaned back, still holding 
 the pages that had put new life and love in her 
 veins, and there Hallie found her an hour later 
 fast asleep.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 WELCOME NEWS 
 
 r * HE wind seemed to creep through every 
 crevice of the old house. The sound of 
 drifting snow could be heard on every 
 window pane and no path, no track could 
 be seen outside. The cat, rolled up on the rug in 
 front of the open fire, seemed the only unconcerned 
 creature around. Rover, the dog, went from the 
 front kitchen door to the back wagging his tail. He 
 seemed to know that something was wrong; that 
 something disturbed his mistress. Emily Liver- 
 more went from window to window peering out; 
 for she had the shades all up in order to light the 
 roadway for those outside. It was the first bliz- 
 zard of the season, and the only terrible one since 
 she had come to Canton. 
 
 "Do you think, father, there is danger of Hen- 
 ry's getting stuck in the drifts? Do you, really?" 
 she asked anxiously, stopping by the chair of Hen- 
 ry's father, who was there spending a few weeks 
 with them, and laying her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "I don't know, Em," answered the old man, 
 gently placing his hand over hers, and shaking his 
 head. "It all depends on his horse." 
 
 "O, Ned is all right, but the road is all filled in. 
 I can't see even a track," she answered, "and there 
 is a drift that half covers my bed-room window. 
 
 138
 
 WELCOME NEWS 139 
 
 Just come in and see it." 
 
 To please her, the old man followed; and, as 
 he looked, he said: "It's an old timer, an old 
 timer." 
 
 "I don't know what to do ! Do you suppose I 
 ought to let Rover out ? Wouldn't he be likely to 
 find them if they were lost? I have read of such 
 things," said Emily. 
 
 "No, no, keep him in, so far as Henry is con- 
 cerned. If the horse is any good, he'll keep to the 
 road whether Henry can see to rein him or not. A 
 horse is a wonderful animal, a horse is, knows 
 more'n men do in a storm like this. Henry put on 
 his cloth overcoat under his fur one, didn't he?" 
 asked the old man, anxiously. 
 
 "Yes, and I didn't let him know it, but I wrap- 
 ped up two hot bricks besides the soapstone, and 
 tucked them into the pung before he drove out of 
 the shed, and his robes are heavy. If I could only 
 know !" she said, "But perhaps he is still over to 
 Mrs. Miller's. We don't know how sick he found 
 her. Rover acts awfully nervous. It wouldn't do 
 any harm to let him out, would it? Dogs know 
 as much as horses, don't they?" 
 
 "Well, let him out. It can't do any harm. We'll 
 see which way he goes." 
 
 As Emily started for the door, Rover began 
 stepping around and wagging his tail, ready to 
 bound out as soon as the door should open. He 
 was a beautiful two-year-old St. Bernard with 
 which Uncle Dick had emphasized a hundred dol-
 
 i 4 o THE PROBLEM 
 
 lar check on Emily's wedding day, hence his name 
 "Rover," a symbol of his travels. So tensely had 
 he wedged his way into the hearts of his owners 
 that they now looked on him as a part of their 
 "stock in trade," and he was perfectly devoted to 
 them. 
 
 When out, he snuffed around the door, and then 
 started off in the direction the team had taken. 
 
 "Rove's gone," said Emily. "I wonder if he 
 will find Henry." 
 
 "You bet. He'll never be back till he does, un- 
 less he finds someone else who needs help. That's 
 the nature of him," answered Mr. Livermore. 
 
 "It is quarter past nine, now. I mean to see 
 how long he will be gone," said Emily, who still 
 kept up her watching, although only once did she 
 hear the sound of bells, and they came from a 
 heavy team that passed. 
 
 First Mr. Livermore and then Emily added 
 wood to the open fire; besides which there was a 
 big fire in the furnace. Although Emily felt that 
 never in her life had she seen a storm like this, she 
 tried to console herself by thinking that perhaps 
 this seemed worse because one she loved was, or 
 might be, in the midst of it. She had a hot drink 
 and a hot supper ready in case Henry should come ; 
 but the hands of the clock rolled slowly around, 
 and nobody came, neither was any sound heard 
 save the hard beating of snow against the build- 
 ings. 
 
 "Father, you needn't stay up if you are tired/' 1
 
 WELCOME NEWS 141 
 
 she said, at last. "I won't be afraid so long as I 
 know you are in the house." 
 
 "No, no, I'm all right, Emily. Perhaps he'll 
 be here pretty soon." 
 
 Emily- saw that the speaker was growing more 
 anxious than he cared to say, and thinking to get 
 his mind on something else, said: 
 
 "Let's have a game of checkers while we wait. 
 We can make those men jump around, if the ones 
 outside can't," she said, laughingly, as she brought 
 out the black and red checked board which stood 
 for one of the old man's favorite games. This in- 
 deed helped to entertain him, although both were 
 on the alert every moment. Between every game, 
 and often in the midst of one, Emily ran to peer 
 out the window. 
 
 Ten o'clock came, eleven, and twelve, and then 
 they heard a bark. Rover was at the door. In an 
 instant Emily was there. The faithful fellow came 
 in, went to both, wagged his tail, and lay down be- 
 side the cat, which waked as some of the cold 
 snow from Rover fell on her head. Emily watched 
 him. In an instant, she saw securely bound to the 
 dog's collar, with a red string, a tiny package wrap- 
 ped up in one of Henry's rubber gloves which he 
 always carried in his bag. She caught her scis- 
 sors from her sewing basket and cut the several 
 threads holding it. Then she almost breathlessly 
 pulled out the crumpled piece of paper on which 
 in Henry's "dreadful scrawling," as she always 
 called it, she found the words :
 
 142 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "Don't worry. Am all right. Had to stop at 
 Jones's. Harry broke leg. Won't be home till 
 morning. 
 
 "HENRY." 
 
 Somehow, the words did not look "scrawly" to- 
 night; they looked beautiful to her, so beautiful 
 that she raised the paper to her lips and kissed 
 them. 
 
 "O, father, listen," she cried. The note was 
 read to him, and then she said, "I'm so glad, but 
 wasn't he a dear to send it?" 
 
 As she spoke the last words, she thought of 
 Rover; and, kneeling beside him saw that he was 
 completely tired out. He lay stretched full length, 
 his eyes closed, and his tongue half out of his 
 mouth. Rover was her pet. It was Rover who 
 had brought her the good news from Henry. Ro- 
 ver should have his share of the credit. What could 
 she do for him? She thought a moment and then 
 flew to the kitchen, coming back with a dish of hot 
 milk, into which pepper, salt and broken pieces of 
 bread had found their way. With a little coaxing 
 Emily succeeded in getting him up to eat; in a few 
 minutes he seemed to feel better, shook himself, 
 walked around the room, and then back to his old 
 place. There Emily left him when they went to 
 bed, and left near him the dish filled almost to the 
 brim with milk. 
 
 Although she went to bed, she did not find 
 sleep until after the clock struck three in the morn-
 
 WELCOME NEWS 143 
 
 ing, when, to her amusement afterward, she 
 dreamed of summer time and flowers. Shortly af- 
 ter seven, she was wakened by the sound of men's 
 voices and heavy bells. The snow-plow was out 
 with its full force of men and horses. Emily soon 
 found that Mr. Livermore was also up; had re- 
 built the open fire to add as much cheer to the place 
 as possible ; and also had the teakettle boiling, pre- 
 paratory to breakfast. Rover was his old self 
 again. They needed only Henry, now, to make 
 the circle complete. 
 
 They had scarcely finished breakfast, when Ro- 
 ver started for the door and barked. This time his 
 mistress opened it without a question, and watched 
 him bound down the road. In less than an hour 
 she heard the sound of their own bells, and in a 
 few minutes saw Henry drive into the yard with 
 Rover in the pung beside him. 
 
 Emily, foreseeing the difficulty Henry would find 
 on reaching home, and knowing how tired he 
 would be, had called to one of the men handling 
 the plow, and through him had gotten two other 
 men to shovel their own driveway, as well as in 
 front of the barn and shed. 
 
 Throwing a cape over her shoulders, she ran out 
 to meet her husband. 
 
 "Well, little girl," he said as he kissed her. 
 
 "I'm so glad you've come ! But do tell me how 
 you found Rover last night," she said, anxiously. 
 
 "Got on your overshoes?" he asked, instead of 
 answering her question.
 
 144 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "Yes, they are on, and I won't take cold," she 
 said, drawing the hood over her head. "Tell me 
 where you found him, Henry." 
 
 "O, down here about two miles. Was on my 
 way back from Mrs. Miller's Jones, there, was 
 stuck in the snow lost the road. Rove found him, 
 and knowing the team was coming, stuck to him 
 until he could call me. Their boy broke his leg." 
 
 "You said 'broken leg' in the note," said Emily. 
 
 "Everyone scared of the storm, couldn't get a 
 team anywhere, and he started afoot for me," ex- 
 plained Henry as he unloosened the horse and led 
 him into the stable. 
 
 "Don't come any further, Em," he continued. 
 It isn't shoveled good, here. I'll be in in a minute. 
 Better run in and I'll tell you the rest there. How's 
 father?" 
 
 "All right," answered Emily, "and I was so 
 glad he was here," she called back. 
 
 While Henry ate his breakfast, the second one 
 for the morning, although more appetizing than 
 his previous one, Emily heard the rest of the story. 
 
 "I wouldn't have slept a wink if it hadn't have 
 been for Rover and the note," she said. 
 
 "I felt last night, Rove was worth his weight in 
 gold," he answered. "I knew he would come 
 straight home, and then you wouldn't worry. I 
 had feared before that you might be wishing you 
 had never married a doctor," he added playfully. 
 
 "If I hadn't married you I would never have 
 married anybody," she answered, emphatically, go-
 
 WELCOME NEWS 145 
 
 ing around to the chair he had pushed back and 
 climbing into his lap. 
 
 "Hear her, father? Do you suppose she means 
 it?" he asked, roguishly. 
 
 "I think she does. Emily is Emily, and means 
 what she says, you know," answered the old man 
 rather seriously, Emily thought, but Henry under- 
 stood.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 THE LITTLE STRANGER 
 
 ONE of Willa's delights was to go to the 
 postoffice for the mail. At first her moth- 
 er had insisted on her carrying a small 
 bag for that purpose, but now Miss Wil- 
 la felt she was big enough to carry it "like papa," 
 and she did. The postmaster and his wife, as well 
 as many of the townspeople who invariably gath- 
 ered there at the same hours, expected to see little 
 "Red Riding Hood," as they called her, come 
 marching in. The child wore a little red coat com- 
 ing to the bottom of her dress, and a red velvet 
 hood. A white lamb's wool collar and muff added 
 to these made Willa present a picture fair enough 
 to cheer any tired heart. 
 
 One cold winter's Saturday, the Doctor was 
 called on a trip which took him past the office. 
 Willa rode there with him, ran in for the mail, let 
 him look over the addresses, and then started home 
 with it in a hurry, as he had said, "A letter from 
 Aunt Mabel, I guess." 
 
 "O, won't mama be pleased? She was wishing 
 this morning for one. Good-by," said Willa as she 
 kissed him; and then she wiped her face, for his 
 mustache was frosty, but Willa didn't care. Papa 
 was papa, and she couldn't leave him, even for a 
 few hours, without her "good-by" kiss. 
 
 146
 
 THE LITTLE STRANGER 147 
 
 "Mama, mama, one from Auntie Mabel, one 
 from Auntie Mabel," shouted Willa, rushing into 
 the house, her cheeks almost the color of her coat 
 and hood. 
 
 "Papa said so," she added, picking out the right 
 one. 
 
 "No, from Hallie," answered Mrs. Warren as 
 soon as she saw the writing. 
 
 "O, about the baby, quick," cried Willa, taking 
 off her furs, hood and coat as rapidly as possible. 
 
 Willa's love for "Auntie Mabel," Hallie, and 
 the new baby the post card had told about made 
 her have her full share of interest in the contents 
 of the letter ; but Willa had been brought up a lady, 
 and she now took her little chair and placed it be- 
 side her mother's, looking up at her expectantly, 
 hopefully, and yet silently until her mother had fin- 
 ished reading : 
 
 "DEAR MARGARET: 
 
 "As you already know by my post card, Rich- 
 ard Warren Irving arrived safe and sound on New 
 Year's eve. Mabel has been at me to write to you 
 for a week, but every day seems so full I haven't 
 got to it before. Both she and the baby are doing 
 finely. She sat up to-day for the first time, but she 
 did not stay long. 
 
 "I do wish you could see the youngster. He 
 weighed eight and a half pounds, and has gained 
 eight ounces already, but he ought to gain for he 
 eats like a little pig.
 
 148 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "His hair is light like Clifford's and was long 
 enough to part and comb around. I just drew off 
 an outline of his little hand, and will put it in the 
 letter for Willa to see. 
 
 "Speaking of his weight I shall have to tell you 
 about two old ladies who came in the other day to 
 see him. They did not come together, but their 
 calls happened to overlap, and they were here at 
 the same time. When they were told how much 
 he weighed, one piped up in a most rasping tone, 
 and said, 'Do you know, when I was born they said 
 I weighed only a pound and a half, and my moth- 
 er's wedding ring went clean up to my shoulder.' 
 
 "The other one evidently did not mean to be 
 eclipsed, and she said, proudly, 'Well, I beat that. 
 I only weighed fifteen ounces, and they said, course 
 I don't remember it, but they said the doctor took 
 me and lowered me into a new coffee pot that sat 
 on the table, and the cover went down.' 
 
 " 'For the land sakes !' exclaimed the first one. 
 'And did you live?' 
 
 " 'Why, they said I did, and that I grew nice- 
 ly,' the other answered, soberly. 
 
 "They were both in dead earnest, and honest, 
 Margaret, I thought I should explode, but Mabel 
 gave me a look that made me put the check rein 
 on for then, although ever since I haven't been 
 able to think of it without laughing. 
 
 "I truly do not know which is the happier, Ma- 
 bel or Clifford. If ever a man hated to start for 
 business mornings, he does. I wish I could step
 
 THE LITTLE STRANGER 149 
 
 in some day to sec Em and Henry. If they are 
 half so happy as you and Hunt and Mabel and 
 Clifford, I fear I should begin to wish that my 
 'affa-ni-ty' as I call him would come. I haven't 
 seen him yet, though. I am dead sure of that. I 
 guess mine must have died when he was a little 
 fellow, and if so, I am doomed for 'old-maid- 
 hood,' for I never, never will marry a man that I 
 do not care anything about, and they are the only 
 ones that have come along yet. Em used to say 
 that I was too 'futhy' as she called it, but I think 
 it is something to be fussy about, don't you ? 
 
 "Mabel's home is just a dream of a place. Here 
 it is January, and I wish you could see their lawn. 
 It would make you forget all about the snow drifts 
 that you must be having there by this time. 
 
 "Uncle Dick is a darling. He grows better and 
 better every time I see him. It seems so strange 
 now to have him a real live uncle, so full of fun. 
 and so lovely, when all my life he has seemed just 
 some kind of a second hand relation that I could 
 only hear about and never see. 
 
 "I hear the baby calling. He doesn't say 'auntie' 
 yet, but something else that is just as emphatic. 
 Mabel will write just as soon as she is able. 
 
 "Lots of love to you all, from 
 
 "HALLIE." 
 
 Mrs. Warren had, silently, during this reading 
 slipped the little paper hand over to Willa who took 
 it with a little, "O-O o" under her breath, after
 
 1 50 THE PROBLEM 
 
 which she placed it over and under each of her own 
 plump hands and tried to decide from which hand 
 of the baby's it came, until her mother had reached 
 the end, when she turned to Willa, ready to answer 
 the dozen or more questions that were likely to 
 come thick and fast. 
 
 The Doctor returned and the letter had to be 
 read to him. After laughing over some parts of it, 
 and talking seriously over others, Mrs. Warren 
 said: 
 
 "I am so glad. Mabel earned all the happiness 
 that can come to her." 
 
 "And Hallie is no easy mark, either," answered 
 the Doctor. "There is a whole lot to that girl, 
 after all." 
 
 "I know it, and she was such a little flyaway 1 
 Father always loved her ; in fact, he was about the 
 only father the girl ever knew," replied Mrs. War- 
 ren. "I remember one Sunday afternoon she had 
 gotten her mother's consent to come over for just 
 one hour, and I can see father now," she said 
 laughing. "He had Hallie up on his lap, and she 
 parted his hair in the middle, braided each side of 
 the front; then she braided his whiskers in sev- 
 eral strands and tied her doll's ribbons on the dif- 
 ferent braids. She was up to something all the 
 time." 
 
 "How old was she then, mama?" asked Willa, 
 excitedly. 
 
 "About six, I guess." 
 
 "You haven't any whiskers, but I wouldn't braid
 
 THE LITTLE STRANGER 151 
 
 them if you had," said Willa seriously, climbing up 
 in her father's lap. 
 
 "You wouldn't?" he answered, laughing, and 
 putting his arm around her. 
 
 "N-o. You are my papa, and you wouldn't look 
 like a man then," she said, nodding her head and 
 drawing her lips together tightly, as though she 
 had settled the question for all time.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 TAKING ROOT IN NEW SOIL 
 
 SEVEN years have passed. Willa is no long- 
 er a tiny girl in the Woodrow school, but a 
 pupil in the High School at Ripley. Dr. 
 and Mrs. Warren are next door neighbors 
 to Mr. and Mrs. Holway. 
 
 The question of leaving Woodrow had been a 
 big one to them, and one that was long considered 
 before a final decision was reached; and when it 
 did come, it was made on Willa's account. They 
 felt that she could not be spared from the home. 
 If she must leave in order to enter another school, 
 they would leave, too; and all this was strength- 
 ened by the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Holway were 
 no longer young, and more and more they urged 
 the coming of their children to the old home town. 
 The change had at last been effected, and all 
 were glad. The Doctor's name was already so 
 well known in Ripley that his practice from the first 
 was large, and much less wearing, as many long, 
 hard drives were saved. Nevertheless, the time 
 never came when he was not glad for his stay in 
 Woodrow and all that it had done for him. 
 
 Si and Hannah had remained in Woodrow ; and 
 more than that, Si had established a business for 
 himself. One of the Doctor's horses had in some 
 way in the past contracted a spavin, and Si, in his 
 
 152
 
 TAKING ROOT IN NEW SOIL 153 
 
 treatment of it, had accidentally discovered a rem- 
 edy. The remedy had been tried so effectively on 
 not only the Doctor's horse, but neighbors' horses 
 as well that the idea occurred to Hannah one day 
 that Si might add to his income by the general sale 
 of it. This idea stuck, when once in Si's mind; for 
 he had ambitions as well as other men. He had 
 not only Joseph, now eight years old, but Lawrence 
 four, and Si meant that they should have their 
 chance when the right time should come. With Dr. 
 Warren's consent, he had gone to work in his spare 
 time, and Hannah worked in hers. Before long, 
 even Joe was able to put labels on some of the bot- 
 tles, not very rapidly at first, but improving each 
 day. A mail order business had been established, 
 and the three were kept busy. 
 
 At the time of Dr. Warren's leaving Woodrow, 
 Si bought his place, made a good sized payment, 
 and gave his notes for the balance. 
 
 Trix could neither be sold or taken; hence it 
 was agreed that he should be left at the old place, 
 and that little Joe and Lawrence should drive him. 
 Willa was getting too old for him now, and none 
 could bear the thought of his going among 
 strangers. 
 
 Before many months passed, Si had had to hire 
 a man, and before the year closed, some other extra 
 help. A part of his old house served for factory, 
 and if business continued to improve at the present 
 rate of progress, the whole house would eventually 
 be needed for that purpose.
 
 154 THE PROBLEM 
 
 Willa, after the move was made, enjoyed two 
 homes. Grandma and grandpa were so near that 
 the hours out of school were generally divided be- 
 tween the two places ; in fact, they seemed like one 
 family. 
 
 It had taken Mr. and Mrs. Holway a few weeks 
 to grow accustomed to thinking of this girl, now 
 almost as tall as Margaret, as their little Willa. 
 Her father and mother had seen the changes come 
 so gradually that they had scarcely been conscious 
 of them, but with Mr. and Mrs. Holway it was 
 different. The last two years had indeed wrought 
 a great change in her, and nothing seemed to 
 change her more in their mind than the tying to- 
 gether of the long curls at the back of the neck. 
 They grieved over this, and one day to please them 
 Willa let them loose. They were forced to admit 
 then that she was too big for the old way, and 
 that the change had been necessary as Margaret 
 had said. 
 
 In school, Willa led the freshman class. In 
 reality, for the past two years she had been ready 
 to enter a fitting school, but Woodrow had none, 
 and she had done much outside work with her fath- 
 er as tutor. 
 
 Pupils are often times jealous of a "leader" but 
 no one was jealous of Willa. She was the pet of 
 the school, with teachers, with boys and girls, but 
 her popularity did not turn her head in the least. 
 She was just Willa as she had always been.
 
 TAKING ROOT IN NEW SOIL 155 
 
 "You know Mrs. Williams?" said Willa one 
 night at dinner. "Well she is just as dear to me as 
 she can be. I just love her, but almost every schol- 
 ar there complains of her sarcasm. I do get cross 
 with her in class the way she speaks to others, but 
 she is good to me. Now, to-day, in rhetoric, she 
 called on Billy Burns, and asked him a question," 
 here Willa laughed before she could continue. 
 
 "Billy got up and said, 'Well, I don't know, 
 but' 
 
 "Very well, Mr. Burns. We'll have some one 
 who does know,' Mrs. Williams said, and called on 
 me. I answered her and answered her correctly, 
 but, honest, I was so cross at the tone she used on 
 Billy. There is scarcely a day when she doesn't 
 snap up somebody, and I feel just as though she 
 had said it to me ; but, outside of class, if I see her 
 for two minutes, I forget all about it, and love her 
 
 just as well as ever." 
 ******** 
 
 And thus the time went on. The name "Willa" 
 seemed like a password into the good graces of 
 hearts everywhere, at home, at church, at school, at 
 play. No good time was quite so good if Willa 
 was not present; and nothing hard or disagreeable 
 was quite so bad if Willa was in the midst. 
 
 Her most intimate girl friend had been chosen 
 from among the poorer girls, a Miss Dorothy 
 Weber from a country town nearly thirty miles 
 from Ripley. Dorothy stood next to Willa in 
 everything, and in some classes took an equal rank.
 
 156 THE PROBLEM 
 
 Whether because of this, or because of some innate 
 quality of refinement which Willa had at once de- 
 tected in Dorothy, a friendship grew up between 
 them. Night after night Dorothy stayed with 
 Willa. The home was always open to her; for 
 Dr. and Mrs. Warren were pleased at Willa's 
 choice. They knew that such companionship was 
 good for her; besides, Dorothy's only home in the 
 town was a boarding-house. They meant to do for 
 this little stranger as they would wish some one 
 to do for Willa if she were similarly situated. 
 
 "Mama," said Willa one day. "You know I do 
 pity Dorothy, awfully. I guess her stepmother is 
 hateful to her. Her father is good, though. He 
 won't have her abused if he knows it, but a lot of 
 times Dorothy doesn't tell him. It must be just 
 awful to have to live with any mother but your very 
 own, mustn't it? I just couldn't stand it without 
 you, mama, I just couldn't," she said, putting both 
 arms around Mrs. Warren. 
 
 For several seconds, Willa's only response was 
 the tightening of the motherly arms around her. 
 When the woman did dare to speak, she simply 
 said: 
 
 "And it seems to me I couldn't stand it without 
 you, dear."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 TIGHTENING THE HEART STRINGS 
 
 DURING these same seven years, 
 changes had also come to Emily. She 
 had become the mother of a robust, 
 brown-eyed, brown-haired boy, now al- 
 most three years old. She and her sister, Mabel, 
 had not seen each other since the year of Emily's 
 marriage, but Hallie had visited her the summer 
 before. 
 
 It scarcely need be said that the "boy" in each 
 family seemed almost the idol of the home, so 
 dearly was he loved ; and each mother felt that she 
 could almost see and know the child of the other, 
 such vivid accounts and so many pictures had 
 passed between them. 
 
 Charles Stanley Livermore certainly held an im- 
 portant place in the home and hearts of Henry and 
 Emily; and also in the heart of his grandfather, 
 for whom he was named, which honor had in a 
 measure compensated the old man for his disap- 
 pointment in not having a girl added to the family 
 in the form of another "little Emily." Such a won- 
 derful child, however, had the little lad proven 
 himself to be that three or four times a year the 
 old man had to visit him, remaining usually two or 
 three weeks each time, except in winter when he 
 was likely to stay longer to spare himself the lone- 
 
 157
 
 158 THE PROBLEM 
 
 liness of his own old home, which he had always 
 insisted on keeping just as his own father had left 
 it. During such a visit, the summer when little 
 Stanley was three years old, Emily began taking 
 the child to church, and a portion of the first Sun- 
 day afternoon following this experiment, she im- 
 proved by writing to Mabel and Hallie : 
 
 "I have got to tell you about Stanley," she wrote. 
 "We took him to church this morning for the first 
 time. Henry and grandpa went, too, and at first 
 Stanley saw so much to take up his attention that 
 he was just as good as a child could be just the 
 usual wiggles out of him that are always in children, 
 until the minister was about half through, when he 
 assumed a deep, loud voice and cried : 
 
 ' 'Moses, Moses, where art thou?' 
 
 "In a moment Stanley got on his feet, leaned 
 over the back of the pew, and twisted his head this 
 way and that, until I put one arm around him, and 
 the other on his skirts and whispered, 'What is it, 
 dear?' 
 
 " 'Mose. Man want Mose,' he said, soberly 
 looking around. 
 
 "I sensed it then and thought I should scream. 
 He said it so loud that some of those sitting near 
 could hear, and knew at once that Stanley was look- 
 ing for his cat, 'Mose.' Henry and grandpa thought 
 that was pretty good. From that time on Stanley 
 was restless, and continued his looking. When 
 we came in the house and he saw Mose, he stamped
 
 TIGHTENING HEART STRINGS 159 
 
 his little foot, and said: 
 
 ' 'Man want Mose. Mose no come. Mose 
 naughty kitty,' and even now he does not seem rec- 
 onciled to the unfaithful attitude of poor Mose. 
 
 "Grandpa tried to read after dinner, and every 
 little while he would burst out laughing, saying, 
 'Mose no come!' He certainly does love Stanley 
 and Stanley loves him. Henry says the child is 
 making his father over faster than anything else 
 ever could. Yesterday it rained and you should 
 have seen Stanley and grandpa on the stairs playing 
 drive horse. I asked Stanley what he was doing, 
 and he said, 'Liv'in go'cies.' Every few minutes he 
 had to come to ask me for my order, make believe 
 write it down, and then start back for his play 
 team, tucking his pencil behind his ear as he sees 
 the grocery boys do. He's a boy clear through, 
 and I am glad of it. If there is anything I hate 
 to see it is a sissified boy or man. I want him to be 
 a boy, every inch of him, for the more 'boy' he is, 
 the more of a man he will make." 
 
 A few days later, another letter read: 
 
 "Grandpa went home to-day. Stanley is so lone- 
 ly that Henry has taken him off on one of his vis- 
 its. If Henry isn't going where there is anything 
 contagious, I like him to have Stanley go. It keeps 
 him out, and it will make the two greater 'chums' 
 when Stanley is older. 
 
 "Henry has just been chosen president of a med-
 
 160 THE PROBLEM 
 
 ical association that has been organized in the 
 county. He works hard, and to my delight he is 
 constantly growing. He has as great an aversion 
 to getting into a rut as I always had, so we grow 
 along together. What he reads I read. 
 
 "By the way, you remember our 'dime' box that 
 we have kept ever since we were married? Well, 
 we made another deposit to-day, twenty-five dol- 
 lars. That makes five fifty that we have saved just 
 in dimes toward our European trip. We are going 
 just as soon as Stanley gets a little older. We will 
 put enough more with it and go on our 'honey- 
 moon' for sure. Hallie has promised to take care 
 of Stanley when we are ready. I am so anxious 
 for Henry to have at least six months' study in 
 Vienna when he does go. That seems a long time 
 to leave our baby. I expect I shall grow chicken 
 hearted when the time comes, but I mustn't cross 
 the bridge until I come to it; besides, so long as 
 Stanley will be looked out for in every way, I shall 
 feel that Henry needs me the more. Does Clif- 
 ford seem to you just a great big baby boy? That 
 is just what Henry is. Men are only boys grown 
 big, after all, aren't they? I suppose he gets so 
 tired and wrought up over different cases that when 
 he comes home he wants to relax and take all the 
 pleasure he can. No doubt some women would 
 think it was a bother, but I never do. I like it. 
 There is nothing that makes me happier than to see 
 that great big tall man coming to me about all his 
 little plans and troubles. He says I always un-
 
 TIGHTENING HEART STRINGS 161 
 
 tangle them for him, but he always does that with 
 mine, so it is only fair play after all. 
 
 "There ! No more writing, dear. Here they 
 are now Stanley's little hands locked around Hen- 
 ry's arm, and both faces looking so happy. Shall 
 have to go to them, for they'll both want 'mama' 
 the first thing." 
 
 Thus the two sisters, so widely separated, kept 
 constantly in touch with each other, and with the 
 other's home life; and thus Emily and Henry con- 
 stantly climbed higher and higher, all the while be- 
 coming more and more unto each other. The sun- 
 shine of each was made by being the sunshine of 
 the other, and watching lest the smallest spark of 
 selfishness should smoulder on their hearth.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE TRIO 
 
 " ~w AM just going to write to your father, and 
 ask him if you can't go," said Willa. 
 
 She was talking to Dorothy shortly be- 
 M fore the close of the spring term in their 
 junior year. Willa had the consent of her father 
 and mother to her little plan, which was that she, 
 Dorothy and Amy Bradford, daughter of the 
 cashier in the bank of which her grandfather was 
 president, should go for two weeks and board with 
 Hannah and Si at Woodrow. 
 
 Neither Dr. and Mrs. Warren, nor grandpa and 
 grandma wondered that Willa wanted to see the 
 old place and her old friends. The change would 
 do her good and her two friends, also. Amy's 
 parents had gladly given their consent; for Mr. 
 Bradford and Mr. Holway were the best of 
 friends, and the question now was, "Could Dorothy 
 join them?" 
 
 Arrangements had already been made with Si 
 and Hannah who had instantly felt that a visit 
 from Willa was all they needed to fill their cup of 
 happiness ; for business had been good, their health 
 good, and their children good. What more could 
 they in reason ask? 
 
 Willa kept her word, and the following letter 
 was sent to Mr. Weber, after being sanctioned by 
 
 162
 
 THE TRIO 163 
 
 her father and mother : 
 
 "MR. CHARLES WEBER, 
 
 BLANKTON, MASS. 
 
 DEAR MR. WEBER: "You have never seen me, 
 but you know me because Dorothy says she has told 
 you all about me. 
 
 "Papa, mama, and I have a plan, but we cannot 
 carry it out without your consent. The plan is this : 
 I want to go back to my old home in Woodrow for 
 a two weeks' visit, and want so very, very much, 
 Mr. Weber, to have Dorothy and Amy Bradford, 
 another girl friend of ours, to go with me. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Bradford have consented, and now we 
 just need your consent to make us a happy trio. 
 
 "It surely will do Dorothy a lot of good, and 
 we can board with the people in our old home. 
 The man worked for papa for years, so we know 
 all about them. It is the dearest place. Dorothy 
 will be my guest, you understand. I am inviting 
 both the girls, or rather the invitation is from papa, 
 mama, and myself. Please say 'yes', Mr. Weber, 
 and we will promise you to take good care of her 
 and to send her home safe and sound. Please let 
 us know as soon as you can, because we are so anx- 
 ious about it. 
 
 "Sincerely yours, 
 
 "Dorothy's friend, 
 
 "WILLA WARREN." 
 
 At the last minute, Willa insisted on having her
 
 i<$ 4 THE PROBLEM 
 
 father's and mother's signature added to strengthen 
 her own, and to prove to Mr. Weber, and the step- 
 mother, too, in case she should see it, that it was 
 the "genuine thing," as she said. She also took the 
 precaution of addressing the envelope on her fath- 
 er's typewriter, because one day, when in a confi- 
 dential mood Dorothy had told her that some of 
 the letters she had sent her father had never 
 reached him, one especially when she had asked for 
 a little extra money at the time of the banquet the 
 year before; and she couldn't help feeling that it 
 had met with foul play, because, during her next 
 vacation her stepmother had sarcastically hinted 
 that school girls to-day thought only of spending 
 money, and dress, dinners, and boys. 
 
 "I never had such hard work to hold in in all 
 my life," cried Dorothy, at the time. "You know 
 I have just enough to get along with and that is all. 
 She plans and makes my clothes as she sees fit, and 
 I have to wear them whether I like them or not. 
 Father pays the school expense, of course, but for 
 spending money! You know, Willa, how little I 
 have ! And I never go with any boys," here Dor- 
 othy had broken down. Throwing herself on Wil- 
 la's couch she sobbed as though her heart would 
 break, not because she didn't have money, not be- 
 cause of any one thing, but just because she had 
 reached the end of her rope, and nothing but a 
 good cry could make her again adjust herself to 
 her present situation. 
 
 "Don't think of it, dear," answered Willa,
 
 soothingly, kneeling by Dorothy and burying her 
 own head on the pillow beside that of her friend. 
 "It will all come right some sweet day, as I al- 
 ways say." 
 
 "I don't see how I ever could have lived through 
 it all, if it hadn't have been for you, and your 
 father and mother," Dorothy again sobbed. 
 
 "Well, we are here, and we are going to stay 
 here, and you can just come any time you want to," 
 Willa answered in her most comforting tone. 
 "Father is the best father, and mother is the best 
 mother a girl ever had. I just know they are, and 
 I'll share them with you, Dorothy. They love 
 you, too," added Willa. 
 
 Dorothy's only answer was the extension of her 
 left arm encircling Willa's neck, and more sobs. 
 
 "Be brave, dear, and we'll pull together," said 
 Willa, with as much earnestness as though she was 
 the age of her grandmother. "You shall have a 
 home just as long as I have one, so there!" she 
 added. 
 
 "I'm ashamed of myself," said Dorothy, sitting 
 up quickly, and putting both arms around Willa, 
 "just ashamed, but but I couldn't help it. It " 
 
 "Don't talk about it. Let's think of something 
 to do. Say, mama said she would help you fix your 
 blue dress for the social the way you wanted it. 
 Let's go over to your room and get it. We can rip 
 it now, and then we will get supper while mama 
 bastes it the way it ought to go. Hooray ! Come 
 on," shouted Willa, dancing across the room and
 
 1 66 THE PROBLEM 
 
 back again. 
 
 "You are an angel and so is your mother," said 
 Dorothy, catching her and giving her a big hug. 
 
 Thus the two girls understood each other, and 
 thus about the matter in question Willa had known 
 how to plan. The looked for letter did not come 
 for a full week. The girls were growing fearful 
 lest an answer in the negative should come, or 
 worse still, no answer at all. At the end of that 
 time, Willa received the following: 
 
 "My LITTLE GIRL'S FRIEND : 
 
 "I am willing for Dorothy to go with you. As 
 you say, it will do her good, and I thank you and 
 your father and mother for being so kind to her. 
 I wish I could do more myself. 
 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 "CHARLES WEBER." 
 
 "O, goodie, good, good 1" cried Willa. "Mama, 
 look, listen," and she read the message that had 
 made her glad, indeed. 
 
 She did not wait to see Dorothy before writing 
 to Si and Hannah that they were surely going, and 
 they fulfilled the promise the Monday following 
 
 the close of school. 
 ******** 
 
 "By Crackers ! Look at her," said Si. Then, Si, 
 Hannah, Joseph, Lawrence, and other old friends 
 and neighbors looked, for three young women were 
 coming down over the car steps, and the head one,
 
 THE TRIO 167 
 
 tall, fair skinned, fair haired, with dark blue eyes, a 
 radiantly frank face, a soulful smile, and graceful 
 step, the one wearing a white sailor suit and jaunty 
 girlish hat was Willa, their Willa. 
 
 The days that followed were wonderful days in- 
 deed, not only to the "trio," Hannah, Si, and the 
 children, but to red headed, freckled faced, bashful 
 Tommy Tucker, brother of Jimmie. He happened 
 at that time to be helping Si Campbell get in his 
 hay, for the greater part of Si's attention had to be 
 given to the factory which was still booming. 
 
 Poor Tommy! He felt that three beautifully 
 winged angels had swooped down on the village of 
 Woodrow and landed on Si's premises. Certainly 
 he had never seen anything like them in Woodrow 
 before. If he saw Willa he was sure she was the 
 most beautiful; if Amy, the most fairylike, and he 
 constantly watched her, if he could do so without 
 being observed, lest she spread her wings and fly 
 away; and Dorothy? Where did she come in? 
 Tommy felt that she was more "just girl" than eith- 
 er of the others, and on a few special occasions he 
 had answered her with words other than merely 
 "yes'm," or "no'm" which he constantly used with 
 the others when he felt duty bound to say some- 
 thing. Sometimes at night Tommy would twist 
 and turn, trying to form a mental picture of this 
 expression or that, as he had seen it on one of their 
 faces ; and then, after wearing himself out with his 
 fanciful day dreams, he would fall asleep, only 
 to dream that they were all out in the field helping
 
 1 68 THE PROBLEM 
 
 him to rake Si's hay, as they had been during the 
 day, or lounging gracefully on a load of hay while 
 Prince and Fred hauled it into the barn. One night 
 he wakened himself by sitting bolt upright in bed, 
 crying, "Don't, don't, Miss Willa, you'll fall." He 
 quickly lay back on his pillow and felt thankful 
 that the others were so far away they could not 
 hear him. 
 
 Neither the girls nor Si and Hannah were 
 blind to the effect of their visit on Tommy's peace 
 of mind. 
 
 "It's just too bad, a mean old shame," said Willa 
 one day. The poor boy has never seen enough girls 
 to get used to them. We must do something to let 
 him see we are just human after all. What can it 
 be?" 
 
 "I know. I know," cried Dorothy. "I used to 
 play it up to Uncle Sam's. Quoit ! Let's play quoit 
 after supper. 
 
 "How? What?" cried both the others. 
 
 "O, I'll show you. I'll ask him for a horse 
 shoe. That will do instead of a ring. It will give 
 Tommy something to do, and he'll forget all about 
 'Tommy Tucker,' see if he doesn't." 
 
 And Tommy, indeed, did forget Tommy Tuck- 
 er. He knew for once that he was "leader," that 
 their playing was inferior to his, and he felt once 
 more almost a hero; he could look at them in a 
 different way than at any other time since their ar- 
 rival. Before this, if mowing grass, and he felt a 
 pair or two pairs of eyes on him, he wielded the
 
 THE TRIO 169 
 
 scythe for all he was worth; if raking hay, one 
 look from them had the same effect, until all noticed 
 it, and Si said, laughingly: 
 
 "By crackers ! It's a good thing for me that you 
 girls came. It's saved me gittin' another man, fer 
 sure. You've made Tommy smarter than liniment 
 ever made any horse I ever see." 
 
 "Tommy'll be all right now, you see if he isn't," 
 Willa said after the game of quoit. 
 
 "Of course, he's all right. Never worked so well 
 in all his life," laughed Si. 
 
 "Poor boy! .It's a shame to laugh about him," 
 said Amy, "but he is so funny I can't help it. He 
 just needs to get some of the corners worn off, 
 that's all." 
 
 "Well, we've worn off one," said Amy. 
 
 "And the others may go off themselves," added 
 Willa.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 DOUBLE HONORS 
 
 WILLA'S graduation from the Ripley 
 High School came on her i8th birth- 
 day. In honor of this double event 
 there came from her parents and 
 grandparents a coal black saddle horse, weighing a 
 little less than ten hundred pounds, and a beauty of 
 a saddle, with russet trimmings and silver mount- 
 ings. It was not exactly like Amy's, which she had 
 longingly admired, but to her delight it was equally 
 as pretty. Willa had felt when she had been as- 
 signed the valedictory that she had honor enough, 
 but this, she was not prepared for this ; and that 
 morning when she was called to the door to wel- 
 come the beautiful dark complexioned stranger, she 
 stood speechless. When she did open her lips, a 
 whole sentence in Latin poured forth, the first sen- 
 tence in the valedictory, which for weeks had been 
 serging through her brain whether awake or asleep. 
 When her four spectators broke into a laugh, she 
 sank in a heap on the top step of the porch. "I 
 I can't say anything," she stammered. 
 
 "Well, well, well, what's this?" said her father, 
 sitting down beside her. 
 
 Willa wheeled around and threw both her beau- 
 tiful plump arms around his neck, and tucked her 
 face up close to his as she used to do when a 
 
 170
 
 DOUBLE HONORS 171 
 
 child; the next minute she kissed him, and then 
 flew to each of the others and treated them in the 
 same way. Lastly, her "Black Beauty," as she 
 called him was visited, and her head rested gently 
 on each side of his neck and against his face. A 
 friendship was then and there formed between 
 them never to be broken. Before Willa was scarce- 
 ly aware, Amy came galloping up, for the night 
 before she had been told of Willa's coming sur- 
 prise and asked to join them at a certain hour. 
 
 "O, he's a beauty, Willa. Isn't he a darling," 
 she cried, leaping from her own mare, a dark bay 
 with black mane and tail. 
 
 "Mine is the best, of course," she said, with mis- 
 chief shining out through each of her big blue eyes, 
 "but yours is next, Willa, next. Isn't that enough? 
 You wouldn't have me go back on Mollie, would 
 you ?" she said, going to her own pet horse and put- 
 ting her arms around the dappled neck, so sleek 
 and shining. 
 
 "You know I wouldn't. Yours is just best for 
 you because you love her, and mine is best for me, 
 because I'm going to love him do love him," she 
 added, following Amy's example and encircling 
 Beauty's neck. 
 
 "Now take a gallop, both of you," said the Doc- 
 tor. "Come on," he called, stepping toward Willa, 
 who with a leap went from her father's hand into 
 the saddle, and away she rode, pulling rein out- 
 side the gate until Amy should join her. 
 
 The four who loved her so dearly watched the
 
 172 THE PROBLEM 
 
 two girls canter side by side down through their 
 own street and out of sight. Nearly an hour passed 
 before they heard laughter and the sound of horses' 
 hoofs. 
 
 "O, he's the dearest, dearest horse in all the 
 world," cried Willa. "I mean, the dearest one for 
 me," she added roguishly, looking toward Amy. 
 
 "Well put in, and lucky for you that you thought 
 of it," the other answered, playfully. 
 
 "Does he suit?" asked grandpa, with a twinkle 
 in his eye. 
 
 "Suit? 'You are the best foxes a little girl ever 
 hed,' " laughingly quoted Willa from her childish 
 letter which had ever since been treasured by grand- 
 pa and grandma. 
 
 Afternoon came. The parts were given, and 
 diplomas presented in the usual way. No girl 
 there, however, carried a happier heart than Willa 
 Warren, not merely because of the honor conferred 
 on her, or because of her morning gift, but princi- 
 pally because she had of her own accord chosen to 
 graduate in a simple, dainty white muslin rather 
 than have her friend Dorothy, and a few other girls 
 in like circumstances, feel that they were conspicu- 
 ous because of their meagre means. Willa, weeks 
 before, had suggested this plan to her father and 
 mother who heartily approved, and whether that 
 had influenced them in their decision regarding 
 "Beauty" Willa never knew. She simply knew that 
 she was supremely happy, that her heart held love 
 for everybody, "good, bad, or indifferent."
 
 DOUBLE HONORS 173 
 
 The next morning nothing would satisfy her ex- 
 cept that Dorothy should have a farewell ride on 
 Beauty. At first Dorothy shrank from it, but rath- 
 er than disappoint her friend on this their last day 
 together, she finally let Willa lead Beauty to the 
 steps where she mounted. 
 
 "Ride up to Amy's, do 1" cried Willa, encourag- 
 ingly. 
 
 The words were scarcely uttered when they 
 heard Amy's birdlike trill and saw her waving her 
 hand at them, as she urged Mollie on. At this time 
 Amy and Dorothy had their first and their last 
 ride together; for Dorothy that afternoon was to 
 leave for the town which from force of habit she 
 called "home," but the thought of which in reality 
 sent a shudder through her. Her school days were 
 over, and thus far, she had dared not think of what 
 might be ahead of her. 
 
 The two girls cantered through street after street 
 of Ripley. 
 
 "Do you mind going down Main street?" asked 
 Amy. "I want to stop at the bank to see papa." 
 
 "Anywhere," answered Dorothy. "I'm sort of 
 a passenger, you know." 
 
 Beauty and Mollie kept side by side. Every 
 now and then they looked toward each other and 
 made believe nip. 
 
 "Look at them. They'll just love each other be- 
 fore long. See if they don't," said Amy, as she 
 drew up to the bank, dismounted, and ran in to see 
 her father. Her errand was short. In less than
 
 174 THE PROBLEM 
 
 three minutes she was back, accompanied by Mr. 
 Bradford, who helped his daughter mount, shook 
 hands with Dorothy, and complimented her on her 
 class history of the day before. 
 
 "Who was that young man that came out just 
 as you went in?" asked Dorothy, when she and 
 Amy were again on their way. 
 
 "Who? What did he look like?" asked Amy, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "Tall, dark, clean good looking," answered 
 Dorothy, briefly. 
 
 "O, I know, Rob Emmons. He's clerk there. 
 Why?" 
 
 "Nothing, only I thought he knew Beauty, he 
 looked at him so hard, and seemed surprised to see 
 me on him." 
 
 "Probably he was surprised. Father says he's 
 Mr. Holway's right hand man. He has had him 
 promoted two or three times already, and," here 
 she rode a little closer and lowered her voice, "don't 
 you say a word to Willa, but more than likely he 
 was surprised to see you on Beauty. Willa has 
 never mentioned him to me, but different times 
 when she and I have been in there together, and 
 he has had to come to Mr. Holway for something, 
 the two have looked at each other as though as 
 though they'd like to be friends, if there wasn't such 
 a difference between them," Amy said. "Don't ever 
 tell, will you?" 
 
 "Tell? No. But what difference?" asked Dor- 
 othy, innocently.
 
 DOUBLE HONORS 175 
 
 "O, they're awful poor," said Amy, who hap- 
 pened to think at that moment that she better be 
 careful how she continued on that subject, because 
 she did not wish to cause a cloud to pass over Dor- 
 othy's sky on this, their last day together.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 IN THE RACE 
 
 FOR years, Mr. Holway's attorney, in fact, 
 the leading attorney of the place, was a 
 colleague of his, and a tried and trusted 
 friend, Col. Charles M. Longley. The 
 lawyer, not having a son of his own although he 
 was the father of four daughters had, a few 
 years before, taken into his office a nephew, Albert 
 Hastings, who had, much to Mr. Longley's regret, 
 inherited many of the unpleasant characteristics of 
 John Hastings, his father. Nevertheless, he was 
 the son of his only sister, and he felt he owed the 
 lad a duty. 
 
 In his uncle's office, Albert Hastings continued 
 his studies, was admitted to the bar, made some 
 friends, and also some enemies ; for the young man 
 did not possess the genial disposition of his dis- 
 tinguished uncle. Instead, he was noted for his 
 sarcasm, criticized for his lack of tact, and for his 
 bump of conceit which seemed over developed ; and 
 endured for the sake of his uncle, and his uncle's 
 family. Nevertheless, the fact that he was Col. 
 Longley's nephew, with the prospect of some day 
 coming into an established law practice, opened the 
 doors of the best homes in Ripley to the young 
 man. 
 
 Hastings' chief regret with this new situation 
 176
 
 IN THE RACE 177 
 
 was that his uncle should not have been childless in- 
 stead of merely "sonless." Those four daughters 
 stood as an unsurmountable obstacle preventing his 
 ever coming into his uncle's wealth, even if he did 
 come into his legal practice. Consequently, it was 
 for his interest, so he reasoned, to place himself at 
 the door of the most promising of the eligible 
 young ladies of the town. 
 
 The year of Willa's graduation, and the year 
 following that, Albeit Hastings made a special 
 effort to be present at all social functions where he 
 thought she might be. He called. He sent her 
 flowers at Christmas, and in many other ways 
 showed her all the attention he dared. 
 
 Because of his close confinement to business he, 
 too, had felt the need of outdoor exercise, and had 
 purposely chosen the saddle. He was a fine rider, 
 and no one knew it better than Albert Hastings 
 himself. He could never resist the temptation to 
 ride his best before any plate glass windows that he 
 might be passing; nor to make favorable mental 
 comments regarding himself as he did so. 
 
 Willa, however, preferred Amy for a companion 
 on her canters. Never had she accepted an invita- 
 tion from him alone, although it frequently hap- 
 pened, on a Saturday afternoon, that their paths 
 crossed, at which time he was accustomed to riding 
 with her to her own gate. Many witnesses of this 
 little scene expressed their surmises, but in the next 
 breath had to admit that Willa was Willa wherever 
 she went, and certainly administered impartial
 
 178 THE PROBLEM 
 
 treatment to all. 
 
 Had Dr. and Mrs. Warren not felt that they 
 knew the girl so well, they might have been some- 
 what alarmed at the marked attention shown Willa 
 by Hastings. As it was, they felt confident that 
 without a word on their part, Willa would read 
 him and read him aright. 
 
 During all this time, no one watched more 
 anxiously or more regretfully than Mr. Holway's 
 assistant, Robert Emmons. No one was more 
 conscious than he that he was not one of them, that 
 he was left out, so to speak, from all the higher so- 
 cial affairs, and this knowledge made him all the 
 more confident that Willa would be won. His 
 crippled mother watched him anxiously. His rosy 
 cheeks were a shade paler. His laugh was not 
 quite so merry. His eyes grew larger, but notwith- 
 standing all these changes, he lost none of his gentle 
 thoughtfulness for "little mother," as he called her, 
 nor did he neglect either his work or his studies 
 which he had constantly pursued since leaving the 
 High School in his junior year. 
 
 "I'm going up street," he said, soberly and yet 
 tenderly, one cold October night. 
 
 She gave him one long, searching look, and then 
 said : 
 
 "Very well, son. You are a man now." 
 
 "Thanks, mother," answered Robert, warmly, 
 as he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. 
 
 In a moment he was gone, and the old lady said 
 to herself, "There is something on my boy's mind.
 
 IN THE RACE 179 
 
 I can see it every day have seen it for a long 
 time," and her brow knitted, thoughtfully. Her 
 mind was full of thoughts concerning her boy, and 
 anxiety lest some trouble that she could not share 
 was weighing on him. Her mind might have been 
 somewhat at rest had she only known that in less 
 than a half-hour's time, he had rung the bell at 
 Mr. Holway's front door. 
 
 "Why, Robert! Come in, come in," said Mr. 
 Holway on opening the door and seeing who his 
 visitor was. 
 
 "Mother, this is Robert. You have heard me 
 speak of him," he said to his wife by way of intro- 
 duction. 
 
 "I'm sure I have known 'Robert' for a long 
 time," said Mrs. Holway, kindly, as she gave the 
 young man's hand a warm, firm grasp. 
 
 "Sit down, sit down, boy. I'm glad to see you," 
 Mr. Holway said, when his wife's greeting was 
 over, but Robert did not sit. He stood in front of 
 Mr. Holway, looked him straight in the eye, and 
 said: "I've come on what to me is important 
 business. Will it bother either of you if I see you 
 alone for a few minutes?" 
 
 "No, no. Come right in here. Mother'll ex- 
 cuse us, won't you, mother?" he asked. 
 
 "Business is business," she answered, laughing. 
 "Go right ahead." 
 
 Mr. Holway led Robert into an adjoining room 
 and shut the door. When both were seated, the 
 elderly man said, in his kindly tone that Robert had
 
 i8o THE PROBLEM 
 
 so of ten heard, "Well?" 
 
 Robert knew what that one word meant, and he 
 said at once : 
 
 "Mr. Holway, next to my mother, I look on you 
 as the best friend I have in all the world. It is 
 for that reason that I am here." 
 
 "Thanks, Robert. I am your friend, and I am 
 glad that you feel it. What can I do for you?" 
 
 "What are my chances for the future?" asked 
 Robert, bluntly. 
 
 "The very best, if you'll stick to the wheel," 
 came the frank, earnest reply. 
 
 "Good ! I'll stick. Another question," the young 
 man answered. 
 
 "Go ahead," urged his listener. 
 
 "I'm poor. What I know and what I have 
 done has come from hard work. I'm not in the 
 'swim' as the fellows say," continued Robert. 
 
 "And some of the 'swimmers' will never see 
 land, but you will, see if you don't," answered Mr. 
 Holway, heartily. 
 
 "But, Mr. Holway, you don't understand. I 
 love Willa Warren," the young man said. 
 
 "Thunder!" exclaimed the old man. "Excuse 
 me, Robert, excuse me. I was just surprised, that 
 was all." 
 
 "I would not be mean enough to seek a further 
 acquaintanceship with her, or even to try to win her 
 love, unless you and her people were willing. I 
 have come to you first, because I know you best." 
 
 The young man paused, still looking straight in-
 
 IN THE RACE 181 
 
 to the eyes of the other. "In case it is possible for 
 me to win her love, would you be willing?'' he con- 
 tinued, eagerly, almost madly, putting emphasis on 
 every word. 
 
 "Yes," came in the calm, even tone of Mr. Hoi- 
 way. 
 
 "Thanks, with all my heart," said Robert, rising. 
 
 "Sit down, sit down, wait. One thing I would 
 suggest or advise." 
 
 "Yes?" said Robert, quiringly. 
 
 "That you wait until after her twenty-first birth- 
 day," added Mr. Holway. 
 
 Robert buried his face in his two hands. After 
 that he did not move a muscle until the other's voice 
 brought him to himself by saying : 
 
 "I mention this because I know it is what Dr. 
 and Mrs. Warren would say if either of us were to 
 ask them." 
 
 "But Hastings," said Robert, with a curl of his 
 lip and fire in his eyes. 
 
 "Time will tell, of course. I will just let you 
 know this much, though, that no man shall have 
 Willa's promise to marry him until after she is 
 twenty-one. Isn't that enough?" 
 
 "But supposing she learns to to like him? 
 He's he's " 
 
 Robert was going to add, "He's mean enough 
 for anything," but checked himself and added, 
 boldly, "I love her so, Mr. Holway." 
 
 Again Robert rose to go, and this time Mr. Hol- 
 way rose, too.
 
 1 82 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "You've shown yourself one man in a hundred, 
 Robert; yes, in a thousand, I guess. You've 
 shown an honor that some fellows don't have only 
 .in their dictionary," said the old man, laying a 
 hand on each of Robert's shoulders and looking 
 straight into his young, frank, manly face. "Good 
 luck to you, boy. I'm with you," he added, heart- 
 ily, shaking the young man's hand. 
 
 "I am glad I trusted you. You have done me 
 good," answered Robert, returning the friendly 
 grip. 
 
 Thus the two parted, and although Dr. and Mrs. 
 Warren were told of the interview, no word was 
 mentioned to Willa; in fact, the four purposely 
 avoided mentioning the name of Robert Emmons. 
 They chose to let common sense and love work 
 out their own courses.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 CHRISTMAS AT GRANDPA'S 
 
 ' "W" FEEL as though we ought to go, Henry," 
 
 said Emily, after reading grandpa's letter. 
 
 "You know the last time he was here, how 
 
 M changed he seemed, and how he had 
 
 failed." 
 
 "I know," answered her husband, "but he is not 
 so feeble that he can't travel, and some of the cases 
 here need me more than usual." 
 
 "Well, it isn't as though there was no other doc- 
 tor in the place, Henry. If the worst comes, your 
 patients can go to them, as theirs have come to you 
 a lot of times," pleaded Emily in Grandpa Liver- 
 more's behalf, feeling a strange sympathy for the 
 old man who positively refused this year to leave 
 the old place as the holiday season approached. 
 
 "All right. Tell him we'll come," he answered. 
 "I never could stay away at Christmas when moth- 
 er was alive, but it is all so different now. It isn't 
 much fun for me, but I mustn't think of myself. 
 It is father, poor father!" he added, with new 
 feeling. 
 
 Emily wrote. The three went. Stanley seemed 
 the only one who felt the genuine Christmas spirit. 
 Somehow his father and mother felt more as 
 though they were attending a funeral, so changed 
 was the old man. No one but Stanley seemed able 
 
 183
 
 1 84 THE PROBLEM 
 
 to bring him to himself for brief periods at a time. 
 With the boy, however, he would laugh his own 
 old-fashioned laugh, would tell stories of past 
 Christmas scenes and experiences, but as soon as 
 Stanley left him he seemed like one dreaming; he 
 would walk around from room to room with eyes 
 so blank that to Henry and Emily it seemed as 
 though they saw nothing except the light to guide 
 him lest he stumble against the various pieces of 
 old-fashioned furniture. His two old time servants 
 understood him, his wishes, and his seemingly 
 freakish fancies. To Henry, it was the saddest 
 Christmas he had ever known. He and his wife 
 both wondered what they would ever do with Stan- 
 ley through these days, which seemed to bring only 
 a phantom of Christmas cheer, were it not for the 
 two children of Henry's boyhood friend, who lived 
 in the very next house. Charlie and Marion had 
 been ready with a hearty welcome for Stanley, 
 about whom old Mr. Livermore had so often told 
 them. They came for him to accompany them to 
 the church to see the decorations, and the tree bear- 
 ing the load that would that evening keep Santa 
 Claus busy. During his hour's absence, Emily 
 noticed that grandpa had ceased pacing his sitting- 
 room, and wondered if he had lain down for his 
 afternoon nap. She continued cracking nuts, pre- 
 paratory to to-morrow's feast, until Henry came in 
 from making a few neighborly calls. 
 
 "Where's the boy?" he asked, looking around. 
 
 "Off to the church with Charlie and Marion.
 
 CHRISTMAS AT GRANDPA'S 185 
 
 They came for him to go to see the tree and see 
 them decorate. Their mother has something to do 
 with it, I guess," answered Emily. 
 
 "Where's father?" he again asked, sitting down 
 near her and taking some of the nuts to crack. 
 
 "Asleep, I think. He walked the floor a long 
 time and then he must have lain down. Guess I 
 better see," she said, rising a little anxiously, and 
 going toward the sitting-room. 
 
 "He seems to sleep a lot," was Henry's mental 
 comment. 
 
 Emily tiptoed along, making no sound on the 
 old worn and faded velvet carpet. At the door she 
 paused, looked at the wasted form of the old man, 
 who was partially covered with a quilt made of fine 
 wool pieces, in the log-cabin fashion, a Christmas 
 present a few years before from his faithful old 
 housekeeper. His hair was snow white; in fact, 
 it had been almost white when Emily first saw him. 
 Now the work of time was finished and no traces 
 of springtide showed themselves in this field of 
 shining, snowy softness. His face was cleanly shav- 
 en, and the high linen collar about his wrinkled 
 throat was of pearly whiteness. The bright, pieced 
 quilt rose and fell regularly, and Emily knew at 
 once that its owner was enjoying a sweet, childlike 
 sleep. As she gazed, she noticed that, clasped with 
 the thumb and finger of each hand, both of which 
 were resting over his chest, was a small photo- 
 graph. Owing to the position, she could not see 
 the face, but both the coloring and edges looked
 
 1 86 THE PROBLEM 
 
 old. Not daring to go nearer for fear of disturb- 
 ing him, she tiptoed back to Henry and sat down 
 on his knee. 
 
 "Sleep?" he asked, putting his arm around her. 
 
 "Yes," she whispered, and then she told him of 
 the photograph. 
 
 "Aunt Emily, likely. Poor father !" 
 
 "He has certainly paid dearly for what he did, 
 hasn't he?" she asked. 
 
 "Dearly? It's just haunted him all these years. 
 I've been afraid it would effect him like this," he 
 answered. 
 
 "I pity him, but I do not blame her," she said. 
 "Do you suppose either of us would have given 
 the other up for the sake of money?" she asked, 
 scornfully. 
 
 "Not much, would we?" replied Henry, play- 
 fully raising one of her hands to his face and then 
 kissing it. 
 
 "Money is good, but not so good as love, is it?" 
 she asked soberly. 
 
 "Not so good as love, Em," Henry answered, 
 tenderly, just as Stanley was heard on the piazza, 
 stamping the snow from his overshoes, and leg- 
 gings that came high above his knees. 
 
 "Sh ! Grandpa's asleep," cautioned his mother, 
 as he entered, but it was too late. Grandpa heard 
 the, "O, come, the whole of us, grandpa and every- 
 body. They've got a busting big tree, and Charlie 
 and Marion both say pieces. It's seven o'clock. 
 M's. Chandler said so," which came from Stanley
 
 CHRISTMAS AT GRANDPA'S 187 
 
 in a half shout and almost in one breath had 
 aroused grandpa, who in a few minutes came 
 strolling out, glad to see the little love scene that 
 had been taking place between his son and daugh- 
 ter, and hoping it had kept them from seeing the 
 weakness he had shown just before losing himself 
 in sleep. 
 
 "Concert, Stanley?" he asked, with a smile, look- 
 ing at his earnest, wide awake namesake. 
 
 "Yes, a big concert, an' Santa Claus, an' every- 
 thing. They want us all to come, Grandpa'll go 
 with me, won't you, grandpa?" he asked, leaning 
 up against the old man wistfully.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 IN THE NICK OF TIME 
 
 AS Willa drove in the yard, Mrs. Warren 
 stepped out, calling, "Don't get out, 
 Willa. Can't you take these samples 
 and drive down to Fowlers for more 
 silk?" 
 
 "How many skeins?" asked Willa, reaching for 
 the samples. 
 
 "Three of the pink and two green," answered 
 her mother. 
 
 "All right," said Willa, tucking the delicate 
 threads inside her purse. She turned Beauty 
 around, for he was accustomed to either carriage 
 or saddle, and in less" than five minutes was at the 
 place in question. 
 
 Inside the store, she noticed a commotion at her 
 right and halted. Willa looked, and then turned 
 to a young lady standing near, saying, "What is it? 
 Do you know?" her tone implying real concern in 
 the matter. 
 
 "An old lady fainted, overcome by the heat, I 
 guess. Isn't it an awful day?" she asked. 
 
 "Why, I don't know. I thought it was beautiful. 
 Has she come to?" asked Willa, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Yes. She didn't get 'clear off,' as we say, but 
 she would have if Georgie hadn't gotten water for 
 her, and someone else ran for brandy." 
 
 188
 
 IN THE NICK OF TIME 189 
 
 "Do you know who she is?" asked Willa. 
 
 "No, I don't. I never saw her before. She is 
 all drawn out of shape with rheumatism, I guess." 
 
 "O!" exclaimed Willa, sympathetically. "I won- 
 der if I can't take her home in my carriage. Have 
 the man ask her, won't you?" 
 
 The girl did as requested, and in a few minutes, 
 as soon as Willa had attended to her mother's er- 
 rand, the old lady was helped into the carriage and 
 driven home, a distance of about two miles, to a 
 humble little cottage, partially hidden by climbing 
 vines, where Mrs. Emmons had directed her; for 
 her companion was none other than the mother of 
 Robert Emmons, Mr. Holway's assistant. When 
 they had gotten into the carriage the clerk had 
 merely said to Willa, "Lakeville way. She'll tell 
 you the house," and Willa thanked him. The 
 woman had seemed so weak that Willa drove slow- 
 ly, and said but little. It was not until they were 
 nearly to the house that she learned the other's 
 name, and when she did, she said frankly, "I am 
 Willa Warren. You probably know my father. 
 Everybody knows him." 
 
 "Yes, and your grandfather, too," answered the 
 other. 
 
 "Grandpa Holway? You know him?" asked 
 Willa, with delight. 
 
 "By name and reputation, yes. My son thinks 
 there never was such a man," the woman answered. 
 
 "Your son ? You mean that Robert Emmons is 
 your son?" asked Willa, with interest.
 
 190 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "Robert Emmons is my son," the old lady an- 
 swered, proudly, as Willa helped her down over 
 the step and into the house. 
 
 "You feel better now, don't you?" said Willa, 
 untying the ribbon bow which held an old-fashioned 
 black summer cape to the woman's shoulders, and 
 removed the bonnet which was likewise old- 
 fashioned, and very, very small, although both were 
 neatly made, and showed that they had been well 
 cared for. 
 
 "I am so glad I happened there," said Willa. 
 "Did you get your errands done?" 
 
 "No, I didn't. I wanted some print for a new 
 dress, and some cloth and trimming for a night- 
 gown. Robert gave me five dollars last night and 
 told me to spend it for myself, but I shan't not 
 the whole of it," the little woman answered. 
 
 "If I only knew the kind you wanted I could 
 get them for you. Can't you tell me? Give me 
 some idea, can't you, so I can try?" suggested 
 Willa. 
 
 "Bless you, dear. I've bothered you enough, 
 now. I'll try again some day, only I did want a 
 best gown, and the wrappers I have now are so 
 faded," she said. 
 
 "What color and what sized figure were you 
 planning on for the print?" asked Willa, earnestly. 
 
 Both were seated now, the old lady in a chair, 
 and Willa on the end of the sofa near her. 
 
 "Black and white, dear, a fine polka dot, if I can 
 get it, if not just a little spray of something," said
 
 IN THE NICK OF TIME 191 
 
 Mrs. Emmons. 
 
 "And the cotton?" asked Willa. 
 
 "Fine, bleached, and some hamburg." 
 
 "How wide?" 
 
 "About so wide," the old lady answered, meas- 
 uring on her finger. 
 
 "I see," said Willa. "Now I know I could get 
 them all right andwould just love to if you will only 
 let me try. I would bring them right out to you, 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "You must be like your grandfather, dear," re- 
 plied the little woman. "Robert says he is always 
 doing something for somebody." 
 
 "If you care to trust my judgment on the quality, 
 Mrs. Emmons, and will tell me how much of every- 
 thing, I will write them down," said Willa, taking 
 from her bag a slip of paper and a pencil. 
 
 "Ten yards of print, black and white, you re- 
 member." 
 
 "Ten yards, yes," repeated Willa, writing. 
 
 "Black thread, number seventy," continued the 
 old lady, and Willa again wrote. 
 
 "Five yards of fine, bleached cotton," the other 
 added. 
 
 Willa repeated this, looking at the paper and 
 writing. 
 
 "Two yards of hamburg. That's all no 
 thread, white, number eighty," Mrs. Emmons con- 
 tinued. "That's all," she again added, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 "Now, just see if I have it right," said Willa,
 
 1 92 THE PROBLEM 
 
 reading off her list of errands. 
 
 "That's right," said her companion, gratefully. 
 "Now, you take my five dollars, and you can bring 
 me the change." 
 
 "No, no, Mrs. Emmons. I do not know yet how 
 much they will be. I'll just get them, and then you 
 can pay me when I bring them. I'll come, to-mor- 
 row," said Willa, rising. 
 
 The old lady, wholly unconscious that the young 
 woman before her was the one who for the past 
 three years had disturbed her son's peace of mind, 
 said: 
 
 "You are a dear girl. I don't wonder people 
 love you." 
 
 "Do they?" asked Willa, innocently. "Well, I 
 love them. Everybody is always so kind to me 
 that I have to love them," she added, taking the 
 old lady's extended hand. 
 
 "It is you, dear, who is kind. How can I ever 
 thank you?" she asked. 
 
 "Don't try," said Willa. "I feel like thanking 
 you for letting me come. I think this is just a 
 dear old place. I have passed it a lot of times, but 
 I did not know that you lived here, or rather, that 
 Robert lived here. I have seen him at the bank, 
 you know," she added, frankly. 
 
 "Robert is a good lad, dear, a good lad," his 
 mother said, tenderly. 
 
 "And you are his mother," slowly answered Wil- 
 la, stooping over to leave a kiss on the old lady's 
 forehead.
 
 IN THE NICK OF TIME 193 
 
 The tone caused the little woman to look up in 
 time to catch on Willa's face an expression of in- 
 tense loyal womanhood, coupled with the heartiest 
 sympathy: 
 
 "You are coming again?" she asked, eagerly. 
 
 "To-morrow," answered Willa, dropping the 
 two crippled hands. In another minute she was 
 gone. The old lady watched her into the carriage, 
 and answered the cheery waving of the hand that 
 
 came from Willa. 
 ******** 
 
 And Willa did go again, not once, but many, 
 many times. A fondness grew up between the two. 
 Willa made a bright spot on the horizon of the old 
 lady's life, and she was never able to leave the vine- 
 covered cottage without giving her promise to re- 
 turn in the near future. Robert grew accustomed 
 to returning and finding a bunch of choice roses or 
 sweetpeas from Dr. Warren's garden adorning his 
 mother's little table. Weeks and months passed. 
 Willa was never there when he returned from the 
 bank. He heard of her visit, however, and he saw 
 the tonic like effect her presence had on his mother, 
 and wished, how he wished, that he might be 
 blessed in a similar way; but he remembered his 
 promise to Mr. Holway, and he determined to 
 keep it at any cost.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 CONTENTMENT 
 
 LISTEN to this, will you?" said Emily, 
 as soon as Henry entered the room one 
 cold afternoon in November. 
 "What now?" he asked, adding a few 
 sticks of dry hard wood to the open fire before 
 them. 
 
 "From Hallie," she answered, putting her sew- 
 ing down, and drawing from its envelope the let- 
 ter just received. 
 
 "DEAREST EM, HENRY, AND STANLEY: 
 
 "We have all been over to Uncle Dick's to-day, 
 and I promised him that I would write you before 
 I went to bed to-night, so here I am hard at it. 
 
 "We all agreed that it is time and past time for 
 you to visit us. Mabel has visited you, and I have 
 visited you, and we think now it is your turn. If 
 you come, you can see us all. You know Uncle 
 Dick will never go East again, but he does want to 
 see you. Here is his check for $100 to help toward 
 the trip, and he says he won't listen to any 'no' on 
 your part. We are all so anxious for the three of 
 you to come. However, if it is absolutely impos- 
 sible for Henry to leave for so long, we think you 
 and Stanley ought to come anyway. We all got so 
 enthusiastic talking about it that we almost had you 
 
 194
 
 CONTENTMENT 195 
 
 here. Think of it! Richard is thirteen, and you 
 haven't seen him yet. It's just a shame. 
 
 "We are all well, as you may know. I am simply 
 tired from my day's trip, so won't write more. 
 
 "Let us know just as soon as you can. We want 
 you here for Christmas, sure, and we will have 
 Uncle Dick's folks over. I shall have two weeks' 
 vacation then, anyway. 
 
 "Lots of love, 
 
 "HALLIE." 
 
 t l 
 
 Henry, during the reading, had been seated in 
 
 his big arm chair, with his feet resting on the edge 
 of an old-fashioned settle which had belonged to 
 Emily's mother. He did not speak until after the 
 letter had been replaced in the envelope, and then 
 he folded his hands behind his head, and looking 
 straight at her, said : 
 
 "Do you want to go, Em?" 
 
 "You know I would like to," she answered, "but, 
 under the conditions, I would be happier at home, 
 Henry." 
 
 "You haven't told them?" he asked. 
 
 "Not a word," said Emily. 
 
 He took his hands down, again fixed the fire, 
 and then drew his chair up close to hers. 
 
 "I want you to please yourself, Emily. You 
 know all the conditions. Of course, I cannot go 
 on father's account, to say nothing of my patients. 
 When paresis gets hold of a man of his age, one 
 doesn't know how to plan. However, I am near
 
 t 9 6 THE PROBLEM 
 
 enough now so that I could get there in a few hours 
 if needed. But, about you and Stanley, it is just 
 as you say." 
 
 "I must write them, Henry. I can't do it. I know 
 Mabel came, but it was scarcely a parallel case, af- 
 ter all. Home is home, and I will wait until un- 
 til" 
 
 She did not finish her sentence, but her listener 
 understood, and for a full half hour he kept her 
 hand in his as they talked over the present problem, 
 and made plans for the future, talked quiet- 
 ly, gently, like the two lovers they were, until a tap 
 came to the door, and Mary, the maid, told the 
 Doctor that he was wanted. Their hands separat- 
 ed, and he jumped up. 
 
 "Just one," said Emily. 
 
 He knew what she meant, and leaned over to 
 leave a kiss on her lips. 
 
 Emily continued her sewing. Her face wore a 
 smile of contentment, as she thought of the pres- 
 ent, the future and the love that was hers. Sud- 
 denly, she heard the sound of Stanley's footsteps, 
 and his voice saying: 
 
 "Papa home?" 
 
 "No, just gone," was Mary's brief reply, and in 
 another moment he was in the sitting-room, fol- 
 lowed by Nip, a genuine Boston terrier, now tak- 
 ing the place of the old Rover that had been killed 
 the year before. 
 
 Stanley had scarcely greeted his mother, when 
 his eyes lighted on the check from Uncle Dick,
 
 CONTENTMENT 197 
 
 which had been omitted from the envelope when 
 the letter was replaced. 
 
 "What did he send it for, mama?" he asked, 
 looking at it carefully. 
 
 On being told, he slapped his hands on his knees 
 and listened eagerly. 
 
 "We'll go, won't we, mama?" he asked. 
 
 "Sometime, dear, not just now." 
 
 "Why, mama?" he asked, his countenance 
 drooping. 
 
 "There are several reasons, Stanley. For one 
 thing, you know grandpa is not well, and if any- 
 thing should happen to him, papa ought to be here, 
 hadn't he?" she answered. 
 
 "Y-e-s," the boy replied, slowly; for he still 
 loved Grandpa Livermore next to his father and 
 mother. He did not know that the letter contained 
 a suggestion that, in case his father could not go 
 he and his mother might go alone, and she did not 
 tell him. 
 
 "What will you buy with this?" he asked, again 
 turning the check over and reading it carefully. 
 
 "Why, I won't buy anything with it. Mama'll 
 return it to Uncle Dick when she writes to thank 
 him," she answered. 
 
 "Gee! I think that's awful! Wouldn't it be 
 fun, though? When can we go, mama?" he asked 
 all in one breath. 
 
 "What did you study to-day?" asked his mother, 
 soberly. 
 
 "O, a lot of things," answered Stanley, knowing
 
 198 THE PROBLEM 
 
 at once what his mother meant. 
 
 "Any grammar?" she asked. 
 
 U A little," Stanley replied, trying to hide his 
 rather subdued smile by going up and giving his 
 mother her full share of hugs and kisses. 
 
 "You ought to write to grandpa to-night, Stan- 
 ley, did you know it?" she asked. 
 
 "Do you suppose he will come down here this 
 Christmas?" he asked, hopefully. 
 
 "I don't know, but you can write and tell him 
 that papa will go for him and take him home if 
 he will." 
 
 "O, couldn't I go, too?" teased Stanley. 
 
 "Just as papa says about that," she answered. 
 
 "Gracious, I'm hungry. Isn't it supper time?" 
 he asked. "I've been hungry for three hours/' he 
 added. 
 
 "Papa'll be back in a little while," answered his 
 mother. "He only went over to Thaxters." 
 
 "Have a game of pachisi, mama?" again asked 
 Stanley, forgetting in the thought of that all about 
 his stomach and supper, and starting for the board 
 without waiting for an answer. 
 
 "Mama, if I do write to grandpa, can I use some 
 of your nice paper? Please, mama?" he urged. 
 
 "That would depend on how hard my boy would 
 try to write well, and to show grandpa how much 
 he has improved," she replied. 
 
 "O, mama ! Teacher said to-day that we've all 
 got to write bertical after this that the way you 
 and papa and grandpa an' everybody writes is old-
 
 CONTENTMENT 199 
 
 fashioned, an' we've all got to do it bertical now 
 an'" 
 
 "Vertical, Stanley," corrected his mother. 
 
 "Yes, she says everything is going to be bertical, 
 right up and down like this," said Stanley, going 
 through gymnastics with his body and arm to dem- 
 onstrate. 
 
 "V, v, Stanley, vertical," his mother again sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "Well, the teacher said 'bertical,' " insisted Stan- 
 ley, "I know she did, 'cause I punched Bertie Gor- 
 don in the back, and said, 'You're kind, Bertie, an' 
 teacher, she " 
 
 Stanley began to flounder for words, and again 
 turned his attention to pachisi, but his mother was 
 much more interested just then in the previous re- 
 mark. 
 
 "She what?" His mother asked, and Stanley at 
 once wished he had not ventured so far. 
 
 "Not much. She said that we had all got to 
 learn 'bertical,' an', can't we play, now, mama?" 
 
 "Did she say anything to you when you whis- 
 pered to Bertie?" Mrs. Livermore asked. 
 
 " 'Twan't whispering, mama. I just said, 'You're 
 kind, Bertie, 'cause 'twas kind o' like his name, you 
 know, an' " 
 
 "But you meant him to hear, didn't you?" 
 
 "Yes, just for fun, you know, but " 
 
 "But it wasn't fun, was it? What did the teach- 
 er do?" 
 
 "She she can't we play now, mama?"
 
 loo THE PROBLEM 
 
 "Not now. What did she do ?" 
 
 Stanley's face commenced to go through contor- 
 tions, showing his mother that he was everything 
 but comfortable. However, the boy had never in 
 his life told his mother a lie, and he could not, 
 would not now. The truth came hard, but it was 
 easier than to see the present expression on his 
 mother's face. With a bang he thrust the board 
 aside, and ran to her, putting his arms around her 
 neck, and kissing her before he could say: 
 
 "She said 'twas whispering, and made me lose 
 recess, and 'twasn't loud, mama," he added. 
 
 "But you disobeyed her, and forgot what, 
 Stanley?" 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 "Forgot what?" she again asked. 
 
 "That I was a gentleman," he answered, "but 
 I won't forget again, mama." 
 
 His look and tone were enough to make his 
 mother respond to his embrace, and thus they were 
 when Henry's footsteps were heard outside.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 THE DISCUSSION 
 
 ONE Saturday morning Amy Bradford 
 was going to the adjoining town to 
 spend Sunday with her uncle's family, 
 and she patiently coaxed Willa to ac- 
 company her on the ride. It was a glorious day 
 in the latter part of May. Mrs. Warren herself 
 joined with Amy in trying to persuade the girl to 
 go. Willa had of late stayed in more than usual, 
 because for weeks Mrs. Warren had neither felt 
 nor acted like her usual self. Both her husband 
 and Willa had been very much concerned over her, 
 but she herself insisted that she was merely tired. 
 The Doctor, however, feared for her nerves. Wil- 
 la and Jennie, the maid, each took extra care to re- 
 lieve her; nevertheless each day seemed to make 
 her thinner, weaker, and more nervous. 
 
 On this particular morning, however, Willa, in 
 order to please her mother, mounted Beauty and 
 rode away by the side of Amy, having left her 
 mother with the promise to be home by supper 
 time. The ride was taken, and dinner accordingly 
 enjoyed at their destination. At three o'clock, 
 Willa started for home, thanking them all for the 
 good time given her. 
 
 "Will see you Monday," called Amy as she gave 
 Willa a cheerful wave of the hand in parting. 
 
 201
 
 202 THE PROBLEM 
 
 It was a warm afternoon for May. The wind 
 was from behind, and before long Willa noticed 
 that Beauty was sweating beneath his saddle. 
 
 "Poor Beauty! Warm day, isn't it?" she said, 
 patting the side of his neck with one hand, and 
 bringing him to a walk. The animal immediately 
 swung his head up and down and gave a little 
 snort, as though answering his mistress in the af- 
 firmative and glad for her consideration. Scarcely 
 two miles had been covered, but it was early, and 
 Willa did not see the need of hurrying. 
 
 "I wish, Beauty, we knew what ailed mama," 
 she said aloud. 
 
 Another slight swing of his head made her feel 
 that she was answered, that Beauty entered into 
 her anxiety for her mother. The two were climb- 
 ing the first steep hill that had come in their way 
 since leaving Amy, when, on a level stretch behind, 
 Willa heard the sound of a horse's hoofs. 
 
 Goodness ! I hope it isn't, but, of course it isn't. 
 I won't look around, anyway," she said to herself. 
 
 "This is a pleasure," said Albert Hastings, as 
 his horse came abreast of Beauty. 
 
 "O, Mr. Hastings! How do you do?" asked 
 Willa, as though the thought that the ap- 
 proaching party might be he had never entered her 
 mind. 
 
 "Mr. Hastings is very well, but he is much more 
 6oncerned to know how Miss Warren is and how 
 she happens to be so far from her home alone on 
 this glorious day," he answered, with his blandest
 
 THE DISCUSSION 203 
 
 smile. 
 
 Willa was angry, not slightly so, but angry to 
 the very tips of her fingers. She had suddenly re- 
 membered Amy's having mentioned seeing one 
 of the Misses Longley, Hastings's cousin, the 
 evening before, and it was more than likely that 
 any pretense of business which he might offer as 
 an excuse for his being there at that hour would 
 be utterly false. Willa had seen him before when 
 she had longed for about five minutes to be a man ; 
 longed to see someone take the fellow by the col- 
 lar of his ever immaculate, well fitting coat and 
 shake him in a way to bring him to his senses, if 
 he had any in a way to take some of the conceit 
 out of him in a way to make him see just how lit- 
 tle a man she really considered him. In this mood, 
 Willa looked at him now, straight in the eye, and 
 said : 
 
 "I had business this way, Mr. Hastings. I came 
 over the road early this morning." 
 
 "Ah, indeed ! Well, I had planned on spending 
 this afternoon at the golf links, but suddenly 
 learned of a business matter in this direction that 
 needed my immediate attention, and business must 
 come before pleasure. You will admit that, Miss 
 Warren?" 
 
 "The right kind of business, yes," answered 
 Willa. 
 
 Hastings for a moment winced under the tone, 
 and then continued: 
 
 "Last Saturday was the opening game, and Sun-
 
 204 THE PROBLEM 
 
 day a few of us enjoyed the links. Never started 
 so early before. You don't object to Sunday play- 
 ing, do you, Miss Warren ?" he added as though an 
 after thought. 
 
 "Very strongly," answered Willa, instantly. 
 
 "Of course you would make a distinction, con- 
 sidering one's profession and his close confinement 
 on other days, would you not?" he asked. 
 
 "In many ways, yes, but not when it comes to 
 making almost a Fourth of July day out of that 
 most sacred day of the week, Mr. Hastings," Willa 
 replied. 
 
 "I don't quite understand you, Miss Warren. 
 Pray tell me why I, for instance, shut up as I am 
 through the week should not spend Sunday in God's 
 glorious out-doors," said Hastings. 
 
 "I feel that it all depends on the spirit in which 
 the day is spent. Pray tell me, Mr. Hastings, if, 
 when you are at the golf links playing on a Sunday, 
 you are thinking of God's out-of-doors, or think- 
 ing of the game." 
 
 "Gee ! I'll draw her out. I like to hear her 
 talk for she looks straight at a fellow when she is 
 in earnest, but I'll change her views," he said to 
 himself, but he turned to her, saying: "No matter 
 what one does, it is his duty to do it to the best 
 of his ability, is it not?" 
 
 "Most assuredly," answered Willa. 
 
 "Then, even though it is a game, he needs to 
 think about it, does he not?" asked Hastings. 
 
 "But we are off from the subject. To my mind
 
 THE DISCUSSION 205 
 
 the question is, 'is the game right or necessary on a 
 Sunday?' " she answered. 
 
 "No, not necessary, but where's the harm, Miss 
 Warren, where's the harm?" quiried Hastings. 
 
 "Do you really want me to tell you just exactly 
 how I feel about some of those things, Mr. Hast- 
 ings?" asked Willa. 
 
 "Do, please do. If you can present any sane up- 
 to-date reason, I should like to hear it," he an- 
 swered with confidence. 
 
 "You will admit, Mr. Hastings, that when God 
 put us here, he put in us three natures?" she asked. 
 
 Hastings would have been much better prepared 
 had the topic under discussion begun with, "Know 
 all men by these presents," or a familiar "where- 
 as;" as it was, his first thought had been, "Ani- 
 mal, vegetable, and mineral," and then he remem- 
 bered that this group referred to the kingdoms. 
 For the life of him he could not think of any other 
 group of "threes" that had come in his course of 
 training, and he merely conceded a mild "yes," 
 wondering all the time to what she referred. 
 
 "Three natures," she went on, "physical, mental, 
 and moral." 
 
 "Surely, and what then?" he answered as though 
 these three had been in his mind from the begin- 
 ning. 
 
 "We must cultivate. He leaves that for us to 
 do. The first, our physical, we cultivate by our 
 exercise, work and play; our mental, by attending 
 school, reading and studying; and our moral, by
 
 206 THE PROBLEM 
 
 enriching the spiritual life in us, partially by at- 
 tending church, partially by reading the highest 
 and best literature, but more by just thinking of 
 God as our Father, of the Bible as his message to 
 us, by trying to be what He would have us be, 
 and to do what He would have us do." 
 
 Willa paused here, still looking at the young 
 man by her side, and wondering how he had re- 
 ceived her message. He did not answer, and she 
 went on: 
 
 "I believe, Mr. Hastings, if any man or woman 
 cultivates only one or even two of these natures, 
 and leaves the other uncultivated, he or she, in 
 God's sight is just as much deformed as though 
 born a hunchback, dwarf, cripple, or anything else. 
 A person, in order to be an all round developed 
 man or woman must be cultivated on all three sides. 
 Is not that reasonable?" she asked. 
 
 Being a lawyer, her listener was not ready to 
 concede the argument to this young woman, fair 
 as she looked to him at that moment. Instead, he 
 thought at once of his own graceful form, of which 
 he had ever been proud, and said, "Can you call 
 me a deformed man, Miss Warren? Can you, 
 truly?" he asked. 
 
 "I am not your judge, Mr. Hastings. God knows 
 your heart. He is the one to say, He and you 
 yourself," she answered, soberly. 
 
 Again, he winced. He thought of the many 
 times he had tried to deceive her, of the constant 
 bluff he had made, of the way his conduct had been
 
 THE DISCUSSION 207 
 
 influenced by the thought of her one day coming 
 into the possession of not only all that Dr. War- 
 ren had accumulated, but all that Mr. Holway 
 owned, as well. Was his moral nature cultivated? 
 Was he an all round developed man? He shrank 
 from answering the question even to himself. 
 
 "Whether you are a 'judge' or not," he said at 
 last, "you would make a mighty good lawyer. I 
 shall have to admit, Miss Warren, that I never 
 thought of it in that light before. I guess you've 
 won the argument, all right," he answered, play- 
 ing with a part of his horse's mane. 
 
 "It was simply a little common sense, that was 
 all," said Willa. "How else could one look at it 
 and be fair to himself and fair to God?" she asked. 
 
 "This is a busy world, Miss Warren. Men to- 
 day can't afford to take time to think about some 
 of these things. They've too much to do," he re- 
 plied, in a defensive tone. 
 
 "Can't afford not to take time, you mean, Mr. 
 Hastings," answered Willa. 
 
 "I don't like talking this way, Miss Warren. 
 Let's not spoil our little ride together by any such 
 arguing," he answered. 
 
 "Did you not urge me to give you my candid 
 opinion?" she asked. 
 
 "Surely, surely," replied Hastings, apologetic- 
 ally, but," 
 
 "And will you admit that your nature is not 
 broad enough, not deep enough to hear the unbi- 
 ased truth?" asked Willa, searchingly.
 
 208 THE PROBLEM 
 
 They were within half a mile of home. Hast- 
 ings felt like kicking himself. Had he dreamed 
 she could or would have spoken as she had, all 
 might have been different. He could not answer. 
 He still fumbled with the coarse, stubby mane of 
 Prince. "I've been an ass," he said to himself, but 
 before he had formed an answer fitting for Willa 
 to hear, she said, hurriedly. 
 
 "Pardon me, "Mr. Hastings," and instantly 
 reined Beauty to a curb stone. 
 
 "How do you do, Mr. Emmons? I wish to in- 
 quire for your mother," said Willa, reaching out a 
 hand covered with a neatly fitting riding glove. 
 "She didn't feel well at all yesterday," she added, 
 her hand still within Robert's. 
 
 Hastings was keen enough to catch the look in 
 each of their eyes as they shook hands ; and he also 
 detected a different tone in Willa's voice from any 
 that had ever come to him. 
 
 "The jackass!" said Hastings. "I'll butcher 
 him some day if , O, thunder! She can't like 
 him, that poor cuss, but he's just been made head 
 bookkeeper. Perhaps that's turned his head. Old 
 Holway likes him. Damn it all !" he muttered to 
 himself. 
 
 He could not hear all that the two said, but 
 enough to know that Willa was very solicitous 
 about Robert's mother ; and he was conscious, too, 
 that their "good-by" was accompanied by another 
 handshake. 
 
 "So you've turned missionary, have you?" he
 
 THE DISCUSSION 209 
 
 sarcastically asked, as Willa again joined him, but 
 Willa completely ignored the remark by saying : 
 
 "Pardon my leaving so abruptly, but Robert's 
 mother and I are great friends. I love her dearly, 
 and she was not at all well when I was there yes- 
 terday." 
 
 "Calls him 'Robert,' eh?" he said to himself, re- 
 membering that never in all their acquaintanceship 
 had either ventured over the boundary line of cere- 
 mony. 
 
 "O, that old cripple of a woman, the one who 
 wears the 'postage stamp' bonnet?" he asked, with 
 one of his hearty laughs. 
 
 Willa could stand a slight, a slur made direct 
 to her, but she could not stand one made against a 
 friend. Her eyes blazed. It seemed as though 
 they might have ignited the very atmosphere which 
 her companion breathed. 
 
 "Mrs. Emmons is my friend. Mrs. Emmons is 
 a lady lady enough to have brought up her son a 
 gentleman!" flashed Willa, giving Beauty her 
 secret signal for speed, and away he dashed, his 
 nose straight out, never looking to right nor left 
 until he carried his fair rider into the yard of her 
 own home.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE PROMISE 
 
 BEFORE Willa slept that night the bell 
 was rung by a messenger from the leading 
 florist of the town. A large box was 
 passed her, and she asked the carrier to 
 wait until she could look inside. Finding there, 
 fastened to the stem of one of the many roses, a 
 note from Hastings, she wheeled the paper wrap- 
 per around, put the fresh side out, and again folded 
 it about the box, re-addressing it to "Albert Hast- 
 ings, Esq." This little act was brief. The boy 
 took the box with a sidewise look at the flushed 
 face, and a smile of approval, for Hastings was no 
 favorite with either young or old. 
 
 "Does he think flowers, or any of his parleying 
 can take the sting out of his insult to-day? Never! 
 Nothing but manhood can do that, and he isn't 
 overburdened with that, I guess," Willa said to 
 herself, turning more calmly to go to her mother's 
 room. 
 
 The two remaining days in May, and each suc- 
 ceedirig day in June found Mrs. Warren more and 
 more nervous. Willa, in her care of her, almost 
 forgot the incident of that Saturday. Her whole 
 attention was needed in the home and with her 
 mother. She and her father had agreed that Mrs. 
 Warren should not be left alone. If both were 
 
 210
 
 THE PROMISE 211 
 
 obliged to be away at the same hour, Grandma 
 Holway relieved them by her presence. For a week 
 the woman had kept her bed constantly, and yet 
 she suffered no pain, no ache. The big man's heart 
 bled and ached; he knew the nervous strain under 
 which his wife was passing, and he longed for the 
 day to come when possibly her mind might be put 
 at rest. The sixteenth came. To-morrow would 
 be Willa's twenty-first birthday. The girl herself 
 had scarcely given it a thought. Her mind and 
 heart were full of her mother's trouble, whatever 
 that might be. Over and over again, she had con- 
 sulted her father, but at these times she seemed to 
 get no particular light. This night, the eve of her 
 birthday, she beckoned him into his study. 
 
 "Papa, I want to tell you," she said. "I know 
 there is something on her mind. She was either 
 dreaming or delirious. Her eyes were closed, and 
 I couldn't tell which, but she kept talking about the 
 'baby' and 'Willa' and 'baby clothes,' over and 
 over; and then the 'woman' and letter.' Every- 
 thing was all jumbled up. I thought she might be 
 thinking of Baby Angie, and got me mixed up with 
 her. Do you think that was it?" asked Willa, rest- 
 ing both hands on the broad shoulders which of late 
 had seemed a trifle stooped. 
 
 "No, Willa, I don't think mama was confusing 
 you with Angie. Let's sit down, dear," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 He drew her to the couch beside him, put an 
 arm around her, and took both of her hands in one
 
 212 THE PROBLEM 
 
 of his. 
 
 "Mother is troubled, Willa," he said gently, 
 "very, very troubled," he added in almost a whis- 
 per. 
 
 "Can't you tell me, father?" Willa asked, plead- 
 ingly. 
 
 "To-morrow," came the faint answer. 
 
 "To-morrow? Is it anything to do with me, 
 father?" she asked anxiously. 
 
 "Yes, darling, with you," he answered, drawing 
 her to him and kissing her. 
 
 "With me ? Why, father anything that I have 
 done that I can help?" asked Willa. 
 
 "Nothing that you have done, nothing that you 
 can help, Willa." 
 
 A long sigh of relief came from the girl. 
 
 "You will tell me to-morrow?" she asked. "In 
 the morning?" 
 
 "To-morrow, in the morning," her father said, 
 almost mechanically. 
 
 "It isn't any bad news, is it father?" Willa 
 asked, in a tone of dread and fear. 
 
 "I don't know, darling," he answered. 
 
 "Don't know? Why, I thought you were to tell 
 me to-morrow?" she replied, wonderingly. 
 
 "I'll tell you to-morrow. To-night, I do not 
 know myself; at least, only a little of it. Then I 
 hope I shall know all," the Doctor replied. 
 
 "About me mother sick tell me to-morrow 
 don't know now. Father, I don't understand," said 
 Willa, leaning her head on his shoulder. "You
 
 THE PROMISE 213 
 
 don't think mother'll die?" she asked, with dread. 
 
 "Not until the right time comes, if she has you 
 and papa with her. You don't know how dearly 
 she loves you, Willa," he said, patting her cheek, 
 which had grown a little pale of late. 
 
 "She is the best mother in the world, and 
 you are the best father," she answered, again kiss- 
 ing him, while her eyes were filled with tears. 
 
 "You will never leave us until until you 
 marry, will you Willa?" he asked, brokenly. 
 
 "Why, what a silly papa ! Of course I wouldn't. 
 You couldn't get along without Willa, could you 
 father?" she asked, cuddling up closer than before. 
 
 "No, darling, I don't think either of us could. 
 It would break my heart, and I think it would kill 
 her. You couldn't do either, could you?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, father! What a question! You know 
 I would die before I would grieve either one of 
 you intentionally. You know I would, don't you?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "I believe you would, Willa, and no little girl 
 or no big girl was ever loved more than we have 
 loved you. You'll never leave us until you 
 marry, will you, Willa?" he again asked, in almost 
 the same words as before. 
 
 Like one chanting, Willa calmly said : 
 
 "Whither thou goest I will go; and where thou 
 lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my peo- 
 ple, and thy God, my God." 
 
 The words came reverently and yet playfully, as 
 Willa caressed the big man by her side. No answer
 
 2i 4 THE PROBLEM 
 
 could have pleased him more at that time. He knew 
 then that no matter what the morrow might hold, 
 nothing could make Willa forget the sacred prom- 
 ise she had just given him.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 BREAKING THE SEAL 
 
 WILLA went to bed but not to sleep 
 until the gray morning light was creep- 
 ing through the closed shades of her 
 cosy room. Something, she knew not 
 what, was hanging over her. Her mind seemed in 
 a whirl. Sometimes she felt as though she were 
 stifling, and would throw both arms across the bed, 
 trying to take in one long breath to refresh her. 
 Never in all her life had such a feeling come to 
 her. What could it mean? 
 
 "To-morrow, father'll tell me. I don't under- 
 stand," she said to herself more times than she was 
 years old. Hours passed before she lost herself in 
 the restless, troubled sleep which failed to break at 
 the usual rising hour. 
 
 In the room below Mrs. Warren had already 
 opened her eyes. When she saw that her husband, 
 also, was awake, she turned to him with the words, 
 "Is this the day, Hunt?" 
 
 "It's the day, Margaret," he answered, sliding 
 one arm under her head. 
 
 "Let us get up," she said, calmly. 
 
 "I'll get up, but you wait until I can bring you 
 coffee," he answered, as though not in the least sur- 
 prised at her suggestion. 
 
 She raised herself on her elbow, and then leaned 
 215
 
 216 THE PROBLEM 
 
 back, saying, "Very well, when you bring the cof- 
 fee." 
 
 The Doctor hurriedly dressed, found that Jen- 
 nie had the coffee nearly ready, and soon carried 
 a cup of it to his wife. 
 
 "I am ready now," she said later, stepping from 
 the bed the first time for over a week. 
 
 The Doctor understood nerves, and he let her 
 carry out her own wishes. Soon she appeared in a 
 dainty gown of blue and white challie, of which 
 Willa was very fond, and with her hair done in her 
 usual becoming way. 
 
 "It's Willa's birthday," she said, like one in a 
 dream, as she approached him. 
 
 "It's Willa's birthday, mother," he answered, 
 slipping his arm through hers and starting for the 
 dining-room. 
 
 "We must have flowers. We always do," she 
 said, looking at the table. 
 
 "So we do. I" 
 
 "Let's go gather them. She may be up herself 
 by that time," suggested Mrs. Warren. 
 
 "Just as you say. It is a glorious morning. I'm 
 glad for that," he answered, opening a little draw- 
 er, and taking from it a pair of garden scissors. 
 "I'll get a basket, mother," he added. 
 
 The two started, each conscious of the greatness 
 of the hurt that this awful weight made on the 
 heart of the other, and each trying for the sake of 
 the other to be calm and cool and collected. Many 
 different kinds of roses bloomed in their garden,
 
 BREAKING THE SEAL 217 
 
 and some of each were gathered. They did not 
 know that the two loving, loyal souls in the next 
 house had seen them and wondered what had 
 "come over Margaret," and were, in their curiosity, 
 starting to join them. 
 
 "Why, it's father and mother," said Margaret, 
 in surprise; and then, going toward them, said in 
 the same even tones used on waking, "It's Willa's 
 birthday, you know. Willa needs mother to-day. 
 Mother'll stand by her." 
 
 The Doctor, putting his arm around her, said : 
 
 "Come, mother, let's go in." 
 
 His heart was so full he could not say more, but 
 grandpa and grandma understood, and all went 
 into the house together just as Willa came down 
 the stairs. 
 
 "Mama !" she cried, catching sight of the dainty 
 figure, the sight of which seemed almost too good 
 to be true. 
 
 "I guess you are my birthday present," she 
 added, loosening her embrace and looking into her 
 mother's eyes. 
 
 "All ready for breakfast, now," said the Doctor: 
 "Let's go in." 
 
 "The flowers. Let us fix them now," said his 
 wife, with an emphasis on the last word which 
 made the Doctor remember that there was some- 
 thing later not so cheery to take up their attention. 
 
 "I'll fix them," said Willa. "O, they are beau- 
 ties," she cried. "The punch bowl will be just the 
 thing. It will hold them all."
 
 218 THE PROBLEM 
 
 With the basket in one hand she started for the 
 kitchen, thus giving grandpa and grandma a chance 
 to slip a neat little white box by the side of another 
 already at Willa's plate. 
 
 "She'll be brave. She knows that something 
 is coming," said the Doctor. 
 
 "How?" asked the three. 
 
 "She was worried about her mother last night, 
 and asked some straight questions which I an- 
 swered," he replied. 
 
 "She doesn't mistrust?" 
 
 "Not that, no, but she knows there is something 
 unusual that she is to hear to-day," replied the Doc- 
 tor. 
 
 "I'm glad you prepared her. It's just like you," 
 said his wife, with a sigh of relief. 
 
 Willa then joined them and the whole room was 
 soon fragrant with the perfume of roses. The five 
 were seated, for grandpa and grandma, although 
 they had had their own breakfast, consented to 
 have another cup of coffee with the "children" as 
 they called the Doctor, Margaret, and Willa, who, 
 seeing the packages by her plate, laughed her old 
 childish laugh, exclaiming, " 'You are the best 
 foxes a little girl ever hed !' I wonder what it is !" 
 
 She first picked up the box on top, which was 
 marked, "From Grandpa and Grandma," within 
 which she found not a large but a genuine diamond 
 ring, with her initials and the date inside. 
 
 "O, you dears, dears!" she cried, jumping from 
 the table and going to give each of them a hug and
 
 BREAKING THE SEAL 219 
 
 kiss ; and then, back at her place again, she opened 
 another box, repeating her expressions of joy to 
 her father and mother before she could remove 
 from its dainty resting place the delicately made 
 chain and locket, the latter bearing her monogram, 
 and enclosing, on one side a picture of her father; 
 on the opposite, that of her mother. 
 
 "I'll love them always," she said with feeling, 
 glancing first at the ring, and then caressing the 
 locket on the chain about her neck. 
 
 Her father had been helping serve the breakfast 
 and her mother pouring the coffee while Willa had 
 enjoyed the surprises arranged for her. None of 
 them ate much. To the older ones, all the joy 
 savored of mockery when they realized the nature 
 of what was ahead; nevertheless, all her life long, 
 they had been as true to her as to their own, and 
 they would continue to be. 
 
 Although Willa endeavored to be her own usual 
 self, her heart all the while was anxious. She kept 
 thinking of her father's words the evening before; 
 and, when breakfast was finished, she slipped from 
 her chair, went over to him, and, winding her arms 
 around his neck, whispered, "Are you going to tell 
 me now, father?" 
 
 He clasped both of his hands over hers for a 
 few moments before he could say, "Just as you 
 wish, dear." 
 
 "I want it now, please. It troubled me all last 
 night, father," answered Willa. 
 
 "It troubled me, too, dear, troubled us all, I
 
 220 THE PROBLEM 
 
 think," he answered, tenderly. 
 
 "Do they all know, father, all but me?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "They know what I know, that is all. Do you 
 want them to come with us into the study?" he 
 asked, resolutely taking her arm in his. 
 
 Never in all his life had the man performed so 
 hard a task. He felt as though life itself was slow- 
 ly ebbing from him. Only the sound of Willa's 
 voice enabled him again to face the problem be- 
 fore him. 
 
 "Of course, I want them all," she answered. "I 
 feel awfully funny, father. You never did this be- 
 fore on any birthday, did you?" 
 
 "Over here, Willa," he said, leading her to the 
 long sofa where they had sat the evening before. 
 
 Mrs. Warren, pale as death followed. Her 
 father and mother dared not take their eyes from 
 her, as she seated herself on the right of Willa. 
 The Doctor nervously opened his safe, and took 
 from within a long envelope, yellow with age. 
 With that in his hand, he sat down on Willa's left. 
 He winked hard. The muscles of his face jerked. 
 Willa's eyes were on him. She had never seen him 
 look like this before. 
 
 "What can it be ?" she asked herself. 
 
 "You know there is something I want to tell 
 you, Willa?" he at last said. 
 
 "No, papa. I think it is something you feel that 
 you must tell me. I don't believe if you really 
 wanted to tell me you would look like that," she
 
 BREAKING THE SEAL 221 
 
 said, heroically. 
 
 "You know father, don't you, dear?" he replied, 
 looking up at her. 
 
 Tears were in the eyes of all save Willa. 
 
 "I must do it; yes, Willa, must is the word," he 
 answered. 
 
 "Go on," she said, encouragingly. 
 
 And then, in a sweet, tactful, resolute way he 
 began at the beginning, and with stroke after stroke 
 painted for the girl by his side, in the most deli- 
 cate shades obtainable, the picture that he had car- 
 ried in his mind ever since that eventful day so 
 long ago. At first Willa saw only a country scene, 
 a country home, and then she began to see a resem- 
 blance between the man belonging to it and 
 her father; another, between the woman and 
 her mother. Soon a shadow of the truth crept 
 across her mind ; she turned pale ; her lips parted; 
 her eyes almost looked through the speaker, as she 
 said, "father, you don't mean " 
 
 "Our darling," he breathed, folding his arms 
 around her. 
 
 Each one seemed speechless, stunned, staggered. 
 Willa's head drooped, and her mother cried: 
 
 "Water. She's fainted. My Willa!" 
 
 When again the big, blue eyes opened, Willa was 
 on her own bed, her father on one side, her mother 
 on the other. 
 
 "My Willa !" wailed her mother, pitifully. 
 
 Willa only closed her eyes again, and again be- 
 came unconscious. Never were services rendered
 
 222 THE PROBLEM 
 
 more faithfully, heroically, lovingly. Grandpa and 
 grandma took the two attendants whatever was 
 needed. Not once did they leave her bedside until 
 the opening of the eyes was accompanied by the 
 faintest color in lips and cheeks. No word came. 
 Only through her eyes did they know that she was 
 conscious. These would open, look at the two 
 watchers, and close again. For nearly three hours 
 she lay in this condition ; and then, when she kept 
 her eyes open longer than usual, her mother slipped 
 from the room to bring a cup of chicken broth. On 
 her return, she found the Doctor kneeling by the 
 bed, his head beside Willa's, and her arm thrown 
 over him. No word had yet been spoken, but the 
 mother knew that her child was slowly coming to 
 herself again. 
 
 "Take this, dear. It will do you good," she 
 said. 
 
 Willa did not answer, but lifted her arm from 
 her father's neck, and allowed him to raise her in 
 a position to drink. As soon as the last swallow 
 was taken, she sank back among the pillows. For 
 several moments she lay without moving a muscle, 
 and then with a shudder she rose, looked from 
 one to the other, saying, "The letter. It " 
 
 Willa fell back, but did not finish her sentence. 
 
 "Here is the letter, dear. It is yours. When 
 you are strong enough for it, you will tell father, 
 won't you?" he asked, placing the letter in one of 
 her hands. 
 
 Willa nodded, and moved her lips, but no sound
 
 BREAKING THE SEAL 223 
 
 came. 
 
 "We love you so," said Mrs. Warren, climbing 
 up on the back of Willa's bed, and lying down be- 
 side her. 
 
 "Mother!" said Willa, turning over and putting 
 her arms around her. 
 
 "Thank God!" said the Doctor, slipping from 
 the room and leaving the two together. "She 
 called her 'Mother,' " he said under his breath. 
 
 Having told Jennie in the morning to refuse all 
 calls for him, he threw himself on the sofa in his 
 study and tried to think. From time to time he 
 heard the murmur of voices above, and knew that 
 his wife and Willa were talking. The sound seemed 
 like music to him. 
 
 "So much is over," he said to himself, "but even 
 now, we know no more than before," he added with 
 a sigh. In a half hour's time, he heard steps, first 
 above, and then on the stairs. 
 
 "Here, father," said Willa, passing him the 
 letter. 
 
 "It's yours, Willa," he answered, rising. "Fath- 
 er wouldn't open it, unless " 
 
 "We want you to. You read it. It has got to 
 come sometime," she said, briefly, still clinging to 
 her mother. 
 
 The words seemed to give the Doctor new cour- 
 age. The shock to the girl had already been felt, 
 and she had still called them, "father" and "moth- 
 er." 
 
 "You break the seal, Willa. I won't betray the
 
 224 THE PROBLEM 
 
 trust she put in me, not even now," he said, pass- 
 ing the envelope to her again. 
 
 Willa took it, let it fall in her lap, and then 
 buried her face in her hands. Whether she was 
 saying a little prayer for strength, or simply dread- 
 ing the task before her, neither knew. In a few 
 moments, she lifted her head, raised the written 
 address to her lips, and then walked to the win- 
 dow, gazing far to the east before she tore the end 
 from the envelope and drew from within the folded 
 sheets. 
 
 "Read," she again said, chokingly, passing them 
 to her father. 
 
 "A Marriage Certificate," said the Doctor, un- 
 folding the thickest paper. 
 
 "Emily May Livermore to Ernest Howard Stan- 
 ton, May 1 6, 1870. Signed, Milton D. Thorndike, 
 clergyman." 
 
 He paused, saying briefly to himself, "Liver- 
 more, Stanton." 
 
 "The letter" reminded Willa, anxious to know 
 the worst at once. 
 
 A long sigh came from the Doctor as he un- 
 folded the closely written sheets, prepared so long 
 ago for Willa, their Willa the mother's Willa, 
 then. 
 
 "Mv DEAR LITTLE GIRL:" It began. 
 
 "I wonder if ever a mother had such a hard task 
 to perform as I have now. I want to tell you 
 enough so that you will at all times understand my
 
 BREAKING THE SEAL 225 
 
 action, and enough to make your mind at peace af- 
 ter you have heard all. 
 
 "I was brought up in what was considered a 
 wealthy home, the daughter of Silas Nason Liver- 
 more, and loved as few children are loved. One 
 day when I was twenty-two I met your father, 
 Ernest Howard Stanton, who had been sent as 
 foreman on an engineering job in our section. For 
 six months he was in that locality. We met. We 
 learned to love each other very, very dearly. My 
 father, however, and my only brother, Charles 
 Stanley Livermore, refused to recognize him." 
 
 "It is our Livermores I" Mrs. Warren exclaimed, 
 "isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, it must be," the Doctor answered. "Her 
 brother must have been Henry's father. How 
 strange!" he said, turning a page to continue: 
 
 "They so idolized me that I think they would 
 have felt that no president, no prince was quite 
 good enough for me. I was looking for nobility, 
 but in character, not rank. They said, 'If you mar- 
 ry that Stanton, you never shall have a cent; you 
 will be ignored in the will,' and as they spoke, I was 
 saying to myself: Til marry him or no one.' 
 
 "They meant their part. I meant mine. My 
 mother was dead. I was of age. When Ernest's 
 work was finished, he left and I left with him. 
 All the money in the world couldn't have bought 
 my love from me.
 
 226 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "My husband, for we were married at once, al- 
 ready had the offer of a new situation; and, think- 
 ing it would be more difficult for them should they 
 try to trace us, he resigned his old and accepted the 
 new, which took him to Los Angeles, California. 
 
 "For a time it seemed to me that I lived in 
 heaven itself. I think your father was the best 
 man I ever knew ; at least, he was the best, the only 
 one for me. After a year, a little boy came to 
 keep us company, but God let him stay only a few 
 short months. He was such a beautiful child that 
 I always felt the angels wanted him to help make 
 heaven more beautiful. And then, one day, about 
 three months before you were born, your father 
 was brought home crushed, mangled, but not dead. 
 
 "His most intimate friend, Willard Irving, broke 
 the news to me as gently as possible. He stood by 
 us through it all." 
 
 "Why, Hunt," again broke in Mrs. Warren. 
 "Willard Irving, it must be Clifford!" 
 
 "I don't think I could be surprised at anything 
 now," he answered, and in a few moments he again 
 read: 
 
 "I did everything, dear, that could be done. We 
 had all the noted specialists for miles around. Our 
 money went, but he had to go, too, just three weeks 
 before you came. 
 
 "I had already suffered so much that I was in 
 no condition to suffer more. When the doctors
 
 BREAKING THE SEAL 227 
 
 found out the truth, they told me to go home if I 
 could. 
 
 "I resolved that I would never go back, after 
 being disowned as I was, and my only thought was 
 of you. This Mr. Irving, your father's friend and 
 mine, told me much of Dr. and Mrs. Warren, and 
 through some other friend of his, I do not know 
 whom, he learned that they had lost their own lit- 
 tle girl. He urged me to go to them, tell them my 
 story, and ask them to take you and bring you up 
 as their own. 
 
 "Knowing, as I do, that my trouble is incurable, 
 I dare not run the risk of telling them at this time 
 who I am, lest they feel that they must report the 
 case to my father, and I could not take anything 
 from him now, after what he did to his baby girl. 
 I am, therefore, going to try another course, of 
 which they will tell you. 
 
 "If they keep you, and I do believe that God 
 will answer my prayer that they may, I know that 
 all good things will be done for you, and that you 
 will be brought up in a way to prove a blessing to 
 them as long as they live. 
 
 "God bless my little girl. May He ever let his 
 angels hover about you, guarding you, and keep- 
 ing you. In case you are still with them, and read- 
 ing this on your twenty-first birthday, I pray, dear, 
 that you may realize that they have been agents 
 from God, taking the places of your father and 
 me, and that you may never forsake them. 
 
 "Again, from the very depths of a mother's
 
 THE PROBLEM 
 
 heart, I say, 'God bless you and help you to think 
 tenderly and kindly of the mother who is doing the 
 hardest thing now that a true mother could possibly 
 do. Be brave and good.' 
 "A heart full of love, from 
 
 "MOTHER."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 HEART TO HEART 
 
 FOR days the Doctor and his wife noticed 
 that Willa was troubled. She endeavored 
 to appear the same and do the same, but 
 her cheeks grew both thinner and paler. 
 The Doctor knew, too, that she was not sleeping 
 as she ought, for night after night he heard her 
 tiptoe across the floor of her room above, some- 
 times to the window, sometimes in the direction of 
 her desk. Several minutes would pass before she 
 would again go to her bed. Never had she been 
 more tender, more thoughtful of their comfort than 
 now. Nothing escaped her. Everything was done, 
 but the girl was troubled. The big man felt sure 
 of that. 
 
 "What can we do ? What can we do ?" he asked 
 himself over and over again. 
 
 A week passed, and again the Doctor called her 
 to his study. 
 
 "I've been thinking, little girl, and I have a 
 plan ; or rather your mother and I have it together, 
 and we want your approval," he said. 
 
 "It's something about me, I know. What is it, 
 father?" asked Willa. 
 
 "Mother and I not only want you ours in name 
 and heart, but we want you legally ours. You are 
 all we have. We want to adopt you, so that you 
 
 229
 
 230 THE PROBLEM 
 
 will be Willa Warren in reality, our very own. We 
 would be happier, and I think you would be, Wil- 
 la," said the Doctor, tenderly. 
 
 "Can it be done? I know I should," Willa re- 
 plied, eagerly. 
 
 "I am so glad," he said. "I will see about it just 
 as soon as the Colonel returns. He'll be back in a 
 day or two. Legal papers will have to be made 
 out, and I had rather have him attend to them than 
 Hastings, although done in the office, I suppose he 
 will have to know about it." 
 
 "I don't care for Hastings, nor for what he 
 thinks," said Willa, who then told her father of 
 that last ride with him, of the flowers and the let- 
 ter afterward, and her return of them. 
 
 "You are all right, Willa," said her father, put- 
 ting one arm around her and patting her head with 
 the hand of the other. "Emmons is a gentleman," 
 he went on, "and you did right to stand up for him 
 and his mother." 
 
 Willa did not answer, but something, she scarce- 
 ly knew what, made her feel glad that her father 
 spoke as he did. 
 
 "I'll see about the papers. Mother will be so 
 glad," he continued. 
 
 The next afternoon Willa went to the stable, and 
 the very sight of her made Beauty coax for a gal- 
 lop. He whinnied, he stepped around, he stretched 
 out his nose toward her, he bowed his neck, and 
 finally, in his delight, he jumped, lifting for the 
 moment all four feet from the floor.
 
 HEART TO HEART 231 
 
 "You dear old boy," said Willa, going to him 
 and caressing him like a human being. "We'll have 
 the saddle on. We will, Beauty. You just wait," 
 she said, going to the stable door. 
 
 "Mike ! Mike !" she called, to the joint helper of 
 the two families. 
 
 "Och. Yis, Miss Willa, I'll shtop, an' be right 
 wid yees," answered Mike in a high key. 
 
 "Will you saddle Beauty, please Mike, and bring 
 him around? I can't stand his coaxing any long- 
 er," said Willa. 
 
 "Yis, Miss Willa, Mike'll saddle Beauty, fer 
 sure, an' it's proud he'll ba to do it," said Mike. 
 "Ha's been warntin' a spane this mony a day," he 
 added. 
 
 "Thank you, Mike," answered Willa, tripping 
 to the house more like her old self than Mike or 
 anyone else had seen her for days. 
 
 When on Beauty's back, she let him follow his 
 own inclination, rather than her own, except inas- 
 much as their wishes agreed. To Willa's amaze- 
 ment he first took her around this square and that 
 square, and then started straight out on the Main 
 street itself to the suburb of Lakeville, out to Mrs. 
 Emmons's. Without a word from his rider he 
 stopped at the door of her friend and his friend; 
 for there, the lot was fenced in, and he was allowed 
 to crop all the grass he liked. Willa was forced 
 to smile and to pat him gently when she saw what 
 he had done. Quickly she dismounted, lowered the 
 check, made the usual slipknot and left him.
 
 43* THE PROBLEM 
 
 "You blessed dear," said Mrs. Emmons. 
 "Where have you been?" she asked. 
 
 Willa told her of her mother's illturn, of her 
 necessary stay at home, but did not tell her of the 
 news that had so nearly crushed her. 
 
 So many days having passed since the two had 
 been together, Mrs. Emmons could not accept a 
 "no" from Willa when inviting her to stay for sup- 
 per. When the visitor saw that her friend would 
 not only feel sorry, but hurt, she consented; and, 
 strangely at that very moment, recalled her father's 
 words and tone of the evening before. At five 
 Robert came. Everything was as usual. All were 
 apparently happy. When the clock struck seven, 
 Willa told them she must go. Robert started for 
 Beauty, but evidently Beauty was not in so great a 
 hurry as Willa; for, when he saw Robert ap- 
 proaching, he lifted his head and started on, look- 
 ing back frequently enough to make sure he was 
 in the lead. Willa and his mother watched from 
 the kitchen window, and laughed at every fresh at- 
 tempt on Robert's part. 
 
 "You mischief, Beauty! I'll have to go my- 
 self," said Willa. He'd follow me to the North 
 Pole if I should start." 
 
 "It's too bad, but the grass isn't damp yet, I 
 guess," said the old lady. 
 
 "O, no, that's all right, but I shall have to go. 
 Beauty is just that stubborn," replied Willa, who 
 said "good-by" and started for the trouble maker, 
 promising another visit in the near future.
 
 HEART TO HEART 233 
 
 At sight of her, Beauty wheeled, tossed his head, 
 and started toward her. 
 
 "You bad Beauty! You shouldn't tease anyone 
 like that," said Willa, and Beauty for answer 
 swung his head around to look at Robert as much 
 as to say, "I wouldn't for you, but I will for her." 
 
 "I see you will," said Robert, laughing. "But 
 isn't he a knowing one?" he added, turning to 
 Willa. 
 
 "Beauty is worth his weight in gold," answered 
 Willa, "aren't you, Beauty?" she asked, leaning her 
 face against his and patting him, never thinking at 
 that moment that Robert was looking on, wishing 
 down deep in his heart that he might be in Beauty's 
 place for just five minutes. 
 
 "I am sorry to have bothered you, but I thank 
 you just the same," said Willa, extending her hand. 
 
 Robert took it in a hearty, earnest grasp, and 
 as he did so, their eyes met in a different way from 
 that in the past. One focus was reached and for 
 several seconds it seemed as though neither one 
 could move a lid or a muscle. They stood there as 
 though riveted to the spot. Their lips never moved 
 to speak a word. Neither could have measured the 
 seconds that passed. At last, they seemed at the 
 same moment to realize that this would not do. 
 Their hands separated, their eyes fell, and Willa 
 reached for the reins. It seemed to her that in 
 the past days, months, now years since she had 
 first known who he was, and later known him, she 
 had never really seen his true self before. To her,
 
 234 THE PROBLEM 
 
 it seemed that in that space of time her soul and 
 his soul had met for the first time, and that they 
 had much to say to each other; and, letting their 
 souls talk, their lips did not need to. Never, in 
 all their lives, had they really said half so much as 
 in those few brief moments. Willa felt that Rob- 
 ert had never looked so strong, so manly, so frank, 
 so honest, so noble. 
 
 The next moment she was on Beauty's back. She 
 couldn't have told how she got there, but there she 
 was; and, taking the reins, she saw his hand ex- 
 tended quickly, heard a quick "good-by," which was 
 as quickly returned, and Beauty started. 
 
 Willa's heart beat in a new way. She tried to 
 calm Beauty down to a steady walk. She wanted 
 a chance to think, and think she did ; not only then, 
 but long after she went to her room that night. 
 She could do nothing but think, and her thoughts, 
 somehow, brought her a new joy that drove the 
 needed sleep away. 
 
 Morning came, and in the first mail she found 
 a brief note, penned the evening before. It read : 
 
 "DEAR WILLA: 
 
 "For a long time I have waited until you were 
 twenty-one before telling you that I love you. To- 
 night I felt the time had come, that I could not 
 wait longer. Can you, Willa, can you return that 
 love and consent to be my wife? 
 
 "Yours in all sincerity, 
 
 "ROBERT."
 
 HEART TO HEART 235 
 
 When Willa read the note she ran to her room 
 without a word, and shut the door. She threw her- 
 self on the bed and cried as though crying was the 
 only thing in all the world to do at that particular 
 moment. She knew not what caused the tears. 
 They just came. Between the different outbreaks 
 she read and re-read the note until each word in it 
 seemed branded on her brain never to be erased. 
 When over an hour had passed, she heard her 
 father's step, and his voice at her door, saying, 
 "May I come, Willa?" 
 
 Three times he called before he heard any re- 
 sponse. She then unlocked the door, replying, 
 "Yes, father. It's all right." 
 
 "You look as though it was all wrong. What is 
 it, Willa? Can't you tell father?" 
 
 For answer she passed him the note, and walked 
 to the window, looking out on the lawn. 
 
 The Doctor read it, drew a deep breath, waited 
 a few moments, and then joined her with the one 
 word, "Well?" 
 
 "I love him, father," she said bravely, although 
 the words were scarcely above a whisper. 
 
 "I know it, dear. I have known it for a long 
 time, Willa," he answered. 
 
 "How?" she asked, wonderingly. 
 
 "In a lot of ways," he replied. "You didn't 
 speak of him the same as you do of Hastings and 
 all the others, and you look differently when he is 
 mentioned; besides I was sort of prepared, for 
 long ago I knew that he loved you."
 
 236 THE PROBLEM 
 
 "How, father?" she again asked. 
 
 Dr. Warren then told her of the noble step taken 
 more than two years before, and of the young 
 man's promise to wait until " 
 
 "He doesn't know?" gasped Willa. 
 
 "No, nothing," answered her father, "except 
 that you would promise no one until after you 
 were twenty-one. He has been a patient boy, and 
 a good one, Willa." 
 
 "I know it. What shall I say?" she asked. 
 
 "Whatever your own heart tells you to, Willa," 
 the Doctor answered, gently. 
 
 "I ought to tell mother," she said. 
 
 "Yes, we'll tell her," he answered. 
 
 ******** 
 
 The following morning Robert received a note 
 briefer than his own; it contained only the one 
 word, "Come," but that word made his whole day 
 happy. What was ahead of him? He scarcely 
 dared think. The figures on ledger and journal 
 seemed dancing, playing around, first, the word 
 "Willa," and then the word, "come," until Robert 
 had to use all his will power to pull himself to- 
 gether. 
 
 When evening came he followed the command 
 of his love ; he went to Willa. 
 
 The two faced each other. Their eyes again met 
 as on the previous evening, and Robert under- 
 stood. In a moment, Willa was in his arms. He 
 had done his waiting in the past. He could not 
 wait now. Her face was close to his, and he
 
 HEART TO HEART 237 
 
 showered it with kisses, her forehead, her cheeks, 
 her lips. 
 
 "Forgive me, dear," he said at last, "but I love 
 you so." 
 
 For answer, Willa simply hid her face on his 
 shoulder and waited. 
 
 "Let's sit down," he said, "you are trembling." 
 
 He led her to a divan. To Willa it was the hap- 
 piest moment she had ever known. Surely, all oth- 
 er happy hours faded into nothingness when com- 
 pared with this ; and Robert thought he had found 
 heaven itself. 
 
 Many minutes passed before either could speak 
 of anything except their love and their present hap- 
 piness. 
 
 "But I must tell you something," said Willa. 
 "So far, I have only said that I love you. Before 
 I promise to marry you, you must know " 
 
 "What, Willa?" gasped Robert. 
 
 And Willa told him of the shock that had so 
 recently come to her; of what a struggle it had 
 been, of how glad she was that her father had 
 partially prepared her the evening before, exact- 
 ing from her her promise to stay with them until 
 she married, no matter what might happen; for 
 had he not done so, she feared the grief was so 
 awful that she would have run away, or done some- 
 thing dreadful, but her promise had held her until 
 she had once more gained control of herself. 
 
 "And," she added, "father and I talked the oth- 
 er night. He is to go to-morrow, if Col. Longley
 
 238 THE PROBLEM 
 
 returns, and have the necessary papers made out, 
 so that I may be legally as well as morally theirs, 
 and have a right to their name." 
 
 "Until you have a right to mine," said Robert, 
 drawing her to him and kissing her. 
 
 "You don't mind, then?" she asked. 
 
 "Mind what?" asked Robert. 
 
 "That I am not their very, very own child?" 
 
 "Willa, it is you, you I love, and it is you I 
 want. Do you want me?" he asked, holding her 
 from him and looking straight into those frank 
 blue eyes. 
 
 Willa met them. "And I want you," she said.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 CHANGES 
 
 DURING the next few days it was 
 learned that Col. Longley had wired 
 that he would not return for another 
 month. 
 
 "I want it over with. I'll let Hastings do it," 
 said the Doctor. 
 
 No one was ever more surprised than Albert 
 Hastings when he learned the nature of Dr. War- 
 ren's errand. The papers such as he deemed 
 necessary were made out, to one of which he wished 
 to have the signature of Charles Stanley Livermore 
 if he still lived. The Doctor, knowing the awk- 
 wardness of such an explanation through letter, 
 suggested that the two take the trip to Mr. Liv- 
 ermore's home, and tell him the story direct. It 
 was agreed, and the two went on the following 
 day. 
 
 To the Doctor's astonishment he found the old 
 man in a condition on which he had not planned. 
 When Mr. Livermore heard them talking of 
 "Emily" and "Willa" at the Doctor's, he lost the 
 name "Willa" completely. 
 
 "Emily yes little Em take me to her. Yes, 
 little Em. She'll know Bud," and thus the old 
 man rambled on, as he trotted around from room 
 to room, and finally appeared wearing his silk hat 
 
 239
 
 2 4 o THE PROBLEM 
 
 and linen duster, for it was a hot day. In one hand 
 was his gold-mounted cane which had been his 
 pride from a young man up. 
 
 Hastings looked at the Doctor in bewilderment. 
 The Doctor looked at the pathetic creature before 
 him. 
 
 "Very well. You will feel better when you see 
 her," he answered, his whole heart full of tender 
 pity for his brother man. 
 
 The three started. It was a two hours' ride 
 by train. The old man all the while kept mumbling 
 to himself something about "little sister, little 
 Em." 
 
 The Doctor with his natural forethought had 
 wired home: "Bringing old gentleman. Weak. 
 Thinks W is Em." 
 
 "Can't do business this way. Will see you to- 
 morrow, Hastings," said the Doctor at the car- 
 riage door, on their arrival, thus giving the young 
 man no chance to witness any scene within, and no 
 chance to see Willa. 
 
 "He's my really true uncle, mother?" asked 
 Willa, as they saw the stranger accompanying the 
 Doctor up the path. 
 
 "Your mother's brother, dear," Mrs. Warren 
 answered. 
 
 "I knew you would come back, Emily. I knew 
 you would come back. I'm old, but you haven't 
 grown old at all. You are just the same as when " 
 The old man stopped. He could not say the words. 
 
 The Doctor nodded to Willa, as he said, "She's
 
 CHANGES 241 
 
 just the same, isn't she grandpa?" 
 
 Willa saw from her father's tone and look that 
 he thought it wiser to humor the old man in his 
 whim, and she did. 
 
 None of the onlookers realized what many of 
 the old man's memories were at that time, nor the 
 shock that they were giving his already weakened 
 system. When he grew exhausted, he lay down, 
 coaxing Willa to "sit beside Bud." Willa did, 
 and gently fanned him until he had fallen into a 
 child-like sleep. The Doctor studied his breathing. 
 Finally he said: 
 
 "I'm going to telephone for Henry." 
 
 This he did, telling him as delicately as he 
 could the situation before him, and adding, "I 
 wouldn't be surprised at anything. You better see 
 him yourself." 
 
 The morning train brought Henry and little 
 Stanley, whom Dr. Livermore had taken with him 
 for a double purpose. Stanley was a favorite with 
 his grandfather, and the sight of him might bring 
 the old man to his normal self for at least a few 
 moments at a time; and further still, because the 
 boy, with his lonliness in his father's absence, and 
 his anxiety over his grandfather's condition might 
 prove too much for his mother's nerves, as the 
 long hoped for "little Emily" was only two weeks 
 old. 
 
 For the first half hour after their arrival, the 
 old man seemed almost normal. He talked to 
 Henry of Emily's money, his wishes, the old place,
 
 242 THE PROBLEM 
 
 and then he asked for "Emily" to come. 
 
 They called Willa. "You've forgiven me?" he 
 asked as he reached for her hand. 
 
 "Yes, uncle," answered Willa. 
 
 "No no no uncle," said the old man, scowl- 
 ing. "Bud, Bud, call me 'Bud' the way you used 
 to." 
 
 Willa looked to her father for courage, and then 
 said: 
 
 "It is all right, Bud. Emily forgives you." 
 
 The tears rushed to Willa's eyes, and she drop- 
 ped in a heap by the bedside, burying her face in 
 the snow white spread. 
 
 "Little sister," said the old man, trying to place 
 his hand on the top of Willa's head. 
 
 Those were his last words. For three days he 
 
 lay in a stupor and all was over. 
 
 ******** 
 
 He was taken back to his old place and laid be- 
 side Henry's mother. 
 ******** 
 
 In the old Livermore home, the young man told 
 the Doctor all that he knew on the subject, told 
 him of his discovery and his father's discovery of 
 the childish likeness of Willa to his Aunt Emily, 
 and of their final decision that it was merely a coin- 
 cidence ; he told him of his grandfather's property, 
 which rightfully should have been divided equally 
 between his two living children, his father and his 
 Aunt Emily at the time; of his father's poor in- 
 vestments, lessening his own share until only the
 
 CHANGES 243 
 
 old home remained, with merely enough for the old 
 man's maintenance, which accounted for Henry's 
 having helped himself from the very first, for he 
 did not mean that anything done for him should 
 take the old home out of the Livermore name. He 
 told him, also, of his father's steadfastly holding to 
 his resolution not to touch a cent of his sister's 
 share, which had been increasing all these years, 
 and which, the last that he knew had amounted to 
 over thirty-seven thousand dollars. 
 
 "Her's belongs to Willa. She is my cousin, you 
 know," he said. 
 
 Doctor Warren seemed stunned. His mind had 
 been on something beside property. At last he said : 
 
 "Yes, she is your cousin." 
 
 "And you will tell her?" asked Henry. 
 
 "I will tell her, but you will stop at our place 
 on your way home ?" asked the Doctor. 
 
 "Yes, I will stop. I want to see her again," an- 
 swered Henry. 
 ******** 
 
 When the Doctor told Willa, the first question 
 that arose in her mind was what would her mother 
 wish her to do? If this money had been denied 
 her mother, whose right came first, ought she to 
 take it? 
 
 Her father and mother and she talked earnestly. 
 To be sure, the fact that Mr. Livermore had re- 
 pented changed the situation to some extent. Again 
 Willa thought of Henry, who by his father's early 
 investments had been deprived of what rightfully
 
 144 THE PROBLEM 
 
 was his. 
 
 "I know what I'll do. Please let me do it," she 
 pleaded. 
 
 "What?" asked both. 
 
 "Tell Henry that I will take half, provided he 
 will take the other half. If not, I do not want any 
 of it. I would not be happy with it. I'd think 
 of " She stopped. She could not say "mother" of 
 any but the woman beside her. "Of her," she at 
 last continued. 
 
 "You can tell him. He will be here next Mon- 
 day," said the Doctor, with renewed admiration 
 and respect for the young girl that they both loved 
 
 as their life. 
 ******** 
 
 Henry came, business was discussed, and finally 
 settled against his wishes, but in the only way pos- 
 sible; for Willa's mind was made up and there 
 was no changing it. 
 
 When it was over, he said, "I have got to tell 
 you something else." 
 
 "Yes?" they all answered. 
 
 "You know that the news of father's death was 
 in the papers?" 
 
 "Yes," answered the Doctor. 
 
 "Two days after he was buried I received a note 
 dated at Linton Corner. Read it," he said, pass- 
 ing it to the Doctor and Willa who were seated 
 near each other. 
 
 Together they read:
 
 CHANGES 245 
 
 "Dear Henry I hev jest heard of your pa's death, 
 will you come to me. I otter told him. Its bout 
 Emily. 
 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 "NANCY." 
 
 When they had finished, both looked at the one 
 to whom the note was addressed. 
 
 "I was not half so big as Stanley when Nancy 
 got married, but I remembered her, and I hunted 
 her out. You know the letter you let me read?" 
 he asked. 
 
 The Doctor nodded. 
 
 "It seems Aunt Em went to Nancy's. She died 
 there, and was buried as Nancy's niece. The neigh- 
 bors did not know the difference. She showed me 
 where, and " Henry halted. Willa had low- 
 ered her head in her hands and all hearts ached for 
 her. 
 
 "Go on," said the Doctor, tenderly laying his 
 hand on Willa's shoulder. 
 
 Henry's voice shook and his eyes filled with tears 
 as he said : 
 
 "I laid her beside father. He's found his Tit- 
 tle Em' at last."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 THE PICTURE'S PERSPECTIVE 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY of the following 
 year brought very different thoughts and 
 scenes to the Warren home in Ripley. It 
 was Willa's wedding day. Her old 
 chums, Dorothy and Amy were bridesmaids; and 
 James Davis, a young man at the bank, was best 
 man. The ceremony was performed at high noon 
 by the Rev. Alexander Lockwood, D. D. Among 
 their out of town guests were Henry, Emily and 
 Stanley, from Canton; and Si, Hannah, Joseph, 
 and Lawrence from Woodrow. 
 
 Willa made a beautiful bride, indeed. As she 
 walked in by her father's side, tall, graceful, dig- 
 nified, gowned in white point de esprit over white 
 silk, and crowned by the bridal veil that had been 
 worn by Mrs. Warren, so long before when taking 
 similar steps which had linked her life with that of 
 Hunt M. Warren, all eyes were on her, and those 
 of her future husband seemed riveted on the ap- 
 proaching figure. They never wavered until she 
 was by his side. The ceremony was brief, but beau- 
 tiful. No hearts were so deeply touched as those 
 of Dr. and Mrs. Warren, and Robert's mother, 
 whom they saw was shown every possible attention ; 
 indeed, the two, together with Mr. and Mrs. Hoi- 
 way, insisted that she remain with them during the 
 
 246
 
 THE PICTURE'S PERSPECTIVE 247 
 
 weeks of the honeymoon which were to be spent in 
 California, with "Auntie Mabel," Hallie, and Clif- 
 ford, that loyal friend of Willa's father and moth- 
 er, the one whom she needed to thank for being the 
 means of guiding her to such blessed people and 
 such a blessed home the one who had guarded 
 their secret so loyally during all these years. 
 
 Dinner was served, the two started, but not until 
 a few brief heart to heart talks were had with 
 those she loved best, best with the exception of 
 Robert who was now a part of herself. 
 
 Wedding presents had poured in from all sides. 
 The one that meant most to the young couple was 
 a deed made out in Willa's name of the place across 
 the street, which house stood on the spot opposite 
 the space between her old home and that of grand- 
 pa and grandma. This was a present from the 
 four, who had found that they loved Willa too 
 well not to have her as near to them as possible. 
 
 During the weeks of her absence the inside of 
 the house was newly whitened, painted, and pa- 
 pered; and contract made for the outside work to 
 be done in the spring. 
 
 "I would love to furnish it," said Mrs. Warren 
 one day, "but a bride does take so much comfort 
 in doing that for her own home that I cannot de- 
 prive Willa of the pleasure." 
 
 "No, we'll wait. We'll keep them here while 
 they are settling, won't we?" answered the Doctor. 
 
 During their six weeks' holiday, no morning 
 passed when a message did not reach the home peo-
 
 248 THE PROBLEM 
 
 pie from the "children," and sometimes, night 
 brought another. Without these, the days would 
 
 have been lonesome ones, indeed. 
 ******** 
 
 Five years have passed. Grandma Emmons has 
 left them, but she left behind to the town a noble 
 legacy in her son ; for, both because it was his na- 
 ture, and because of his great love for his wife, 
 Robert had made the most and the best of his op- 
 portunities. When Mr. Bradford had suddenly 
 dropped dead at his desk, Robert had unanimously 
 been chosen to fill his place at the bank as cashier. 
 The three houses had been named, "The happy 
 triangle," so united were the inmates, and nothing 
 added more to the comfort and happiness of all 
 than the presence of four-year-old Hunt Warren 
 Emmons, and Baby Margaret, who had come to 
 make them a visit, the length of which rested with 
 God.
 
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