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off," he persisted; "a cold grappled in his chest and went
into lung fever. Barzil's looking wasted, what with sickness and the

trouble about Edward." At a nod, half encouraging, he added, "It
appears Edward left Heard and Company in Canton and took ship back
to Boston. He's there now for what I know. Never sent any word to
Salem or his father. Looks a little as if he had been turned out of his
berth. Then one of Barzil's schooners caught the edge of the last
hurricane off the Great Bank and went ashore on Green Turtle Key.
Used him near all up."
Laurel saw that her grandfather was frowning heavily and silently
moving his lips. The other left them standing and her companion
brought his cane down sharply. "Boy and boy," he said. "Barzil was a
good man... looking old. So am I, so am I. Feet almost useless. Laurel,"
he addressed her, "I want you to go right on home. I've got to stop
around and see an old friend who has been sick." She left obediently,
but paused once to gaze back incredulously at the bulky shape of her
grandfather moving toward Barzil Dunsack's. That quarrel was part of
their family history, she had been aware of it as long as she had of the
solemn clock in the second hall; and not very far back, perhaps when
she was eight, it had taken a fresh activity of discussion around the
person of her Uncle Gerrit, who, it was feared, might now be drowned
at sea. What it had all been about neither she nor her sisters knew, for
not only was the subject dropped at the approach of any of them but
they were forbidden to mention it.
At home she was unable to communicate her surprising news at once
because of the flood of talk that met her from the drawing-room. Olive
Wibird and Lacy, her cousin, were engaged with Sidsall in a
conversation often a duet and sometimes a trio. Laurel took a seat at the
edge of the chatter and followed it comprehensively. She didn't like
Olive Wibird who would greet her in a sugary voice; but elsewhere
Olive was tremendously admired, there were always men about her,
serenades rising from the lawn beneath her window, and Laurel herself
had seen Olive's dressing table laden with bouquets in frilly lace paper.
She had one now, in a holder of mother-of-pearl, with a gilt chain and
ring. Her wide skirt was a mass of over-drapery, knots of moss roses
and green gauze ribbons; while a silver cord ending in a tassel fell
forward among her curls.

Lacy Saltonstone, almost as plainly dressed as Sidsall, was as usual
sitting straighter than anyone else Laurel ever saw; she had a brown
face with a finely curved nose and brown eyes, and her voice was cool
and decided.
"For me," she said, "he is the most fascinating person in Salem."
Olive Wibird made a swift face of dissent. "He's too stiff and there is
gray in his hair. I like my men more like sparkling hock. Dancing with
him he holds you as if you were glass."
"I don't seem to remember you and Mr. Brevard together," Lacy
commented.
"He hasn't asked me for centuries," the other admitted. "He did Sidsall,
though, as we all remember; didn't he, love?"
Sidsall's cheeks turned bright pink. Laurel dispassionately wished that
her sister wouldn't make such a show of herself. It was too bad that
Sidsall was so--so broad and well looking; she was not in the least pale
or interesting, and had neither Lacy's Saltonstone's thin gracefulness
nor Olive's popular manner.
"It was very noble of him," Sidsall agreed.
"But he was extremely engaged," Lacy assured her with her wide slow
stare. "He told me that you were like apple blossoms."
That might please Sidsall, thought Laurel, but she personally held apple
blossoms to be a very common sort of flower. Evidently something of
the kind had occurred to Olive, too, for she said: "Heaven only knows
what men will admire. It's clear they don't like a prude. I intend to have
a good time until I get married--"
"But what if you love in vain?" Sidsall interrupted.
"There isn't any need for that," Olive told her. "When I see a man I
want I'm going to get him. It's easy if you know how and make

opportunities. I always have one garter a little loose."
"Laurel," her sister turned, "I'm certain your supper is ready. Go along
like a nice child."
In her room a woman with a flat worn face and a dusty wisp of hair
across her neck was spreading underlinen, ironed into beautiful narrow
wisps of pleating, in a drawer. It was Hodie, a Methodist, the only