Nancy laughed incredulously, and said that Peter’s work was quite the same as it had been, and that her friend’s absence had made her see things unnaturally. But Peter’s eyes, in the darkness, opened wide. Here was extraordinary discernment for a nineteen-year-old girl, who had met him only once since her return, casually upon the street, during which time she had merely laughed at him for not knowing her immediately, and then had walked on. Was it possible that she had seen that which he had been carefully guarding from the eyes of his family for a long, long time, and at which even his mother did not guess? But here was Shirley again, speaking low and thoughtfully: "I seem to see everybody, since I came home, as if I had never seen them before. I see father looking as if he thought it did n’t pay to have made so much money, after all; and mother looking worn-out playing the grand lady; Olive following after, and not finding much in it. Murray and Jane absorbed in each other, but Jane wishing--no, I ’ll not say what I think Jane is wishing. She would n’t admit it, I know. Ross and Rufus and you, busy and happy. Your father and mother contented as ever. But Peter----" It would not do. He was fully awake now. If she was going on to talk about him again he must let her know he was there. Besides, if she really divined something of the truth, he must not let her make Nancy anxious. Shirley had paused with his name upon her lips, as if soberly thinking. Peter sat up. But at the fortunate instant a figure dashed across Gay Street. "You runaways!" Rufus called, reproachfully. "A fine hostess you are, Shirley Townsend! They ’re asking for you. You ’ll have to come back." So they went away and Peter was left alone upon the porch. There was a queer feeling tugging at his heart. Nobody else had seen, nobody else had even noticed the slightest change in him. Of course it was not possible that Shirley could know the least thing about his situation, but it was something that she appreciated one fact--that he was working to the limit of his capacity, and that, although he was not yet overdone, the strain was beginning to tell. Not the strain of work, but the greater and more exhausting drain of anxiety. CHAPTER III LUNCHEON FOR TWELVE "Mrs. Murray, Mrs. Townsend would like you to come to her room, if you please." "Yes, Sophy, certainly. Is Mrs. Townsend’s headache better this morning?" "It’s very bad, Mrs. Murray. And she’s that upset about the luncheon she’s giving. Cook’s taken sick, too--the bad luck!" "Since breakfast, Sophy?" "’T was Norah and Mary served breakfast. Cook but got out of bed and went back. Mr. Townsend bade me send for the doctor. He says she ’ll not leave her bed again the day. And Mrs. Townsend says the luncheon must go on, and not a bit of outside help to be had at this short notice."