“Mr. Kinney, Mrs. Hubbard,” said Bartley; and having accomplished the introduction, he hit Kinney a thwack between the shoulders with the flat of his hand that drove him stumbling across Marcia's footstool into the seat on the sofa to which she had pointed him. “You old fool, where did you come from?” The refined warmth of Bartley's welcome seemed to make Kinney feel at home, in spite of his trepidations at Marcia's presence. He bobbed his head forward, and stretched his mouth wide, in one of his vast, silent laughs. “Better ask where I'm goin' to.” “Well, I'll ask that, if it'll be any accommodation. Where you going?” “Illinois.” “For a divorce?” “Try again.” “To get married?” “Maybe, after I've made my pile.” Kinney's eyes wandered about the room, and took in its evidences of prosperity, with simple, unenvious admiration; he ended with a furtive glimpse of Marcia, who seemed to be a climax of good luck, too dazzling for contemplation; he withdrew his glance from her as if hurt by her splendor, and became serious. “Well, you're the _last_ man I ever expected to see again,” said Bartley, sitting down with the baby in his lap, and contemplating Kinney with deliberation. Kinney was dressed in a long frock-coat of cheap diagonals, black cassimere pantaloons, a blue necktie, and a celluloid collar. He had evidently had one of his encounters with a cheap clothier, in which the Jew had triumphed; but he had not yet visited a barber, and his hair and beard were as shaggy as they were in the logging-camp; his hands and face were as brown as leather. “But I'm as glad,” Bartley added, “as if you had telegraphed you were coming. Of course, you're going to put up with us.” He had observed Kinney's awe of Marcia, and he added this touch to let Kinney see that he was master in his house, and lord even of that radiant presence. Kinney started in real distress. “Oh, no! I couldn't do it! I've got all my things round at the Quincy House.” “Trunk or bag?” asked Bartley. “Well, it's a bag; but--” “All right. We'll step round and get it together. I generally take a little stroll out, after dinner,” said Bartley, tranquilly. Kinney was beginning again, when Marcia, who had been stealing some covert looks at him under her eye lashes, while she put together the sewing she was at work on, preparatory to going upstairs with the baby, joined Bartley in his invitation. “You wont make us the least trouble, Mr. Kinney,” she said. “The guest-chamber is all ready, and we shall be glad to have you stay.” Kinney must have felt the note of sincerity in her words. He hesitated, and Bartley clinched his tacit assent with a quotation: “'The chief ornament of a house is the guests who frequent it.' Who says that?” Kinney's little blue eyes twinkled. “Old Emerson.” “Well, I agree with him. We don't care anything about your company, Kinney; but we want you for decorative purposes.”