All their lives John and Helen had heard their mother sing the praises of Mrs. Walter Scott Campbell, née Sanders, until that lady had assumed something of the splendor of a mythical figure in their imaginations. She had been the richest girl in the Hudson River school Mrs. Ward had attended, and she had married wealth. The particular Campbell of her choice had inherited a fortune which he had vastly augmented. When occasionally a New York newspaper drifted into the house Mrs. Ward scanned the financial advertisements for the name of Walter Scott Campbell set out in bold type as the director of the most august institutions. “I suppose----” Mrs. Ward’s tone expressed awe in all its connotations;--“I suppose Mr. Campbell is worth fifty million at the lowest calculation. I met him years ago at one of the school dances. He was quite wild about Ruth then, and they were married, John, just a year before we were. I still have the invitation, and Ruth sent me a piece of the wedding cake. And from the photograph she sent me at Christmas two years ago, I judge that time has dealt lightly with her.” “Campbell’s one of the most important men in Wall Street,” Ward assented. “One of his institutions, The Sutphen Loan & Trust, financed the Kernville Water Power Company, a small item of course for so big a concern. Campbell probably never heard of it.” “Well, men of his calibre usually know where the dollars go,” said John, whose wits were functioning rapidly. “Of course we simply can’t let them go to the hotel,” continued Mrs. Ward; “the Kipperly House is a disgrace. And if Ruth hasn’t changed a lot in twenty-six years she’ll accept us as she finds us. Our guest-room needs redecorating, and we can hardly keep the jackets on the parlor furniture right in the middle of winter; and the bathroom fixtures ought to be replaced----” She paused, seeing the look of dejection on her husband’s face. He was well aware that all these things were old needs which the coming of important guests now made imperative. Mrs. Ward carefully thrust the note back into its envelope. John exchanged telegraphic glances with Helen. His eyes brightened with the stress of his thoughts but he buttered a bit of bread before he spoke. “Well, mother,” he began briskly, “I’m sure we’re all tickled that your old friend’s coming. I can just see you sitting up all night talking of the midnight spreads you had, and how you fooled the teachers. Now don’t worry about the house--you or father, either; I’m going to manage that.” “But, John, we mustn’t add to your father’s worries. I realize perfectly that we’re in debt and can’t spend money we haven’t got. Ruth was always a dear--so considerate of every one--and we’ll hope it’s me and my family and not the house she’s coming to see.” “That’s all right, mother, but this strikes me as something more than a casual visit. I see in it the hand of Providence!” he cried eagerly.