“But, Jim, that ain’t goin’ to help Fanny—what you think of Mr. Elliot. And anyway, it ain’t so. It’s something else. Do you—suppose, you could—You wouldn’t like to—to speak to him, Jim—would you?” “What! speak to that fellow about my sister? Why, mother, you must be crazy! What could I say?—‘My sister Fanny is in love with you; and I don’t think you’re treating her right.’ Is that your idea?” “Hush, Jim! Don’t talk so loud. She might hear you.” “No danger of that, mother; she was lying on her bed, her face in the pillow, when I looked in her room ten minutes ago. Said she had a headache and wasn’t going.” Mrs. Dodge drew a deep, dispirited sigh. “If there was only something a body could do,” she began. “You might get into conversation with him, kind of careless, couldn’t you, Jim? And then you might mention that he hadn’t been to see us for two weeks—’course you’d put it real cautious, then perhaps he—” A light hurried step on the stair warned them to silence; the door was pushed open and Fanny Dodge entered the kitchen. She was wearing the freshly ironed white dress, garnished with crisp pink ribbons; her cheeks were brilliant with color, her pretty head poised high. “I changed my mind,” said she, in a hard, sweet voice. “I decided I’d go, after all. My—my head feels better.” Mother and son exchanged stealthy glances behind the girl’s back as she leaned toward the cracked mirror between the windows, apparently intent upon capturing an airy tendril of hair which had escaped confinement. “That’s real sensible, Fanny,” approved Mrs. Dodge with perfunctory cheerfulness. “I want you should go out all you can, whilest you’re young, an’ have a good time.” Jim Dodge was silent; but the scowl between his eyes deepened. Mrs. Dodge formed three words with her lips, as she shook her head at him warningly. Fanny burst into a sudden ringing laugh. “Oh, I can see you in the glass, mother,” she cried. “I don’t care what Jim says to me; he can say anything he likes.” [Illustration] “Oh, I can see you in the glass, mother,” she cried. Her beautiful face, half turned over her shoulder, quivered slightly. “If you knew how I—” she began, then stopped short. “That’s just what I was saying to Jim,” put in her mother eagerly. The girl flung up both hands in a gesture of angry protest. “Please don’t talk about me, mother—to Jim, or anybody. Do you hear?” Her voice shrilled suddenly loud and harsh, like an untuned string under the bow. Jim Dodge flung his hat on his head with an impatient exclamation. “Come on, Fan,” he said roughly. “Nobody’s going to bother you. Don’t you worry.” Mrs. Dodge had gone back to her kneading board and was thumping the dough with regular slapping motions of her capable hands, but her thin dark face was drawn into a myriad folds and puckers of anxiety. Fanny stooped and brushed the lined forehead with her fresh young lips. “Goodnight, mother,” said she. “I wish you were going.”