He felt a vague thrill of pride that he was chosen as master _pro tem_. of it all. He hoped that Stage and the rest of the Eagle’s habitués would appreciate how great a dignity was his. He had taken good care that all of them should know of his new trusteeship. He must be seen less in their company, he reflected. The master of the big house on the hill did not belong in a barroom. His visits to the Eagle must be fewer and less protracted. He must do nothing to shake the sudden respect and desire for his presence wherewith his daughter-in-law had so recently become imbued. As Dad hesitated in the hallway, Jimmie behind him, just then from one of the rear rooms Marcia Brinton appeared. Dad, as he stepped toward her, tried to inject something of chivalric protection and fatherliness into the greeting he tendered this daughter-in-law of whom he had always been more than a little afraid. “I have not had a chance,” he began rather pompously, “to tell you in person how I appreciate the honor you have done me in choosing me to represent your home and to look after its interests and yours in Joe’s absence. Though I asked Joe to say so for me. I shall do all I can to take his place worthily as head of the house and to serve you in every way in my power.” Mrs. Brinton made no immediate answer, but looked at the elderly and not over-neat figure before her. Her lips were thin. So was her nose. Her alert eyes showed no traces of tears. Presently she spoke. “You seem to have a false idea of your position here,” she said. “I don’t know what gloss Joseph may have put on my request that you stay in this house while he is away. But I think it is always better to be honest and to have a mutual understanding in advance.” “But I don’t understand,” faltered Dad. “I--” “I don’t wish to hurt your feelings,” she continued. “But, as I said, it is best to be honest and above-board. I told Joseph you had better stay here, so that there would be fewer chances of your--of your doing what might pass discredit on us while he is away. And I told him there were many light bits of work by which you could make yourself useful to me and avoid the idleness that might send you into bad companionship. I hope you will not abuse my trust; or add to my annoyances in any way.” “I--I shall try not to,” said Dad dazedly. “And now,” added Marcia briskly, “I’ll have to ask you to get your dinner down-town to-day. My brother and his wife are dining with me.” “Yes, ma’am,” assented the old man. CHAPTER VIII COUNCIL OF WAR Dad lay on a bed a little too short for him and looked up wide-eyed at the rafters above his head. The room to which Marcia had assigned him was under the eaves and had not yet been ceiled. Through its one window poured in a flood of summer moonlight. To the old campaigner the bare quarters were not physically uncomfortable. He had slept--and slept snug--in worse beds, and indeed in no bed at all.