Indulgence was all that Frankie could obtain. In vain she talked of the good she could do them, of how she would be able to help them as she got on better, of the value of the experience to be gained in Mr. Petersen’s office. Minnie and her grandmother persisted in regarding this work of hers as a rather selfish frivolity; they humoured her, but they were grieved. Frankie was made to see that Minnie had chosen the better and the harder part, that she at least held inexorably to duty. They passed an evening not at all pleasant. The gulf between them was becoming more and more evident. Things were never quite the same again, after that first day at Mr. Petersen’s. II Unknown to the old lady, who would have been deeply shocked, Frankie and Minnie were in the parlour the next Sunday afternoon sewing, putting the final touches to a dress which Frankie was to wear in the office next day. When, suddenly, as she happened to look up, Minnie saw Mr. Petersen riding up the drive, on his splendid horse, and wearing his breeches and leggins and a quite new coat. “Frankie!” she cried, in horror. “He’s coming in! Hide the sewing, quick!” “He wouldn’t care,” Frankie objected, but nevertheless she obeyed, and every trace of their activity had vanished by the time Minnie admitted him. “Might I see Mrs. Defoe?” he asked. Minnie explained that she wasn’t able to come downstairs. “So I’ve heard. But it’s a business matter. Perhaps she’d let me go up.” She did; they watched him mounting the stairs, which creaked and shook under his heavy tread. “What can he want?” asked Frances, nervously. “Oh, Minnie, I hope and pray it’s nothing about my not going on!” “I don’t see what else it can be,” said Minnie, consolingly. But she was soon enlightened. Mr. Petersen came tramping down again after twenty minutes’ talk and announced that Mrs. Defoe would like to see Miss Minnie. The old lady was rather agitated. “Dear! Dear!” she whispered. “The man’s arranged a second mortgage on the east field, so that I can pay off part of that first mortgage Mr. Bascom is so rude about. I don’t understand it very well, but I must say he’s very considerate--very considerate. Dear me! You’ll have to be civil to him, pet. Ask him to sit down and give him a piece of the fruit cake.” She found him standing in the hall, talking to Frankie, and when she invited him into the parlour, he accepted cheerfully. “Get Mr. Petersen a piece of cake, Frankie,” said Minnie. She _couldn’t_ bring herself to wait on him. He was polite, he was clean and well-dressed, he said nothing that could offend her, and yet she _was_ grossly offended, merely by the sight of him, sitting there, in the Defoe parlour, holding his straw hat in his great red hands. Couldn’t he realise?