One by one the years passed. Twenty had gone by now since the small boy came with his fateful summons that June day. Jane was fifty-five now, a thin-faced, stoop-shouldered, tired woman--but a woman to whom release from this constant care was soon to come, for she was not yet fifty-six when her father died. All the children and some of the grandchildren came to the funeral. In the evening the family, with the exception of Jane, gathered in the sitting-room and discussed the future, while upstairs the woman whose fate was most concerned laid herself wearily in bed with almost a pang that she need not now first be doubly sure that doors were locked and spoons were counted. In the sitting-room below, discussion waxed warm. "But what shall we do with her?" demanded Mary. "I had meant to give her my share of the property," she added with an air of great generosity, "but it seems there's nothing to give." "No, there's nothing to give," returned Edgar. "The house had to be mortgaged long ago to pay their living expenses, and it will have to be sold." "But she's got to live somewhere!" Mary's voice was fretful, questioning. For a moment there was silence; then Edgar stirrad in his chair. "Well, why can't she go to you, Mary?" he asked. "Me!" Mary almost screamed the word. "Why, Edgar!--when you know how much I have on my hands with my great house and all my social duties, to say nothing of Belle's engagement!" "Well, maybe Jane could help." "Help! How, pray?--to entertain my guests?" And even Edgar smiled as he thought of Jane, in her five-year-old bonnet and her ten-year-old black gown, standing in the receiving line at an exclusive Commonwealth Avenue reception. "Well, but--" Edgar paused impotently. "Why don't you take her?" It was Mary who made the suggestion. "I? Oh, but I--" Edgar stopped and glanced uneasily at his wife. "Why, of course, if it's _necessary_," murmured Mrs. Edgar, with a resigned air. "I should certainly never wish it said that I refused a home to any of my husband's poor relations." "Oh, good Heavens! Let her come to us," cut in Fred sharply. "I reckon we can take care of our 'poor relations' for a spell yet; eh, Sally?" "Why, sure we can," retorted. Fred's wife, in her soft Southern drawl. "We'll be right glad to take her, I reckon." And there the matter ended. * * * * * Jane Pendergast had been South two months, when one day Edgar received a letter from his brother Fred. Jane's going North [wrote Fred]. Sally says she can't have her in the house another week. 'Course, we don't want to tell Jane exactly that--but we've fixed it so she's going to leave. I'm sorry if this move causes you folks any trouble, but there just wasn't any other way out of it. You see, Sally is Southern and easy-going, and I suppose not over-particular in the eyes of you stiff Northerners. I don't mind things, either, and I suppose I'm easy, too.