"How delightful," was her laughing comment. "Do you know, Ranny, when we’re married I mean to come down to your office quite often?" "Better come now," I suggested. "Who knows—whether there’ll be an office by then?" "Oh, it isn’t so long to wait—perhaps in—June—or when you take your holiday." "The sooner the better," I told her quite sincerely. "I see no object in any further delay—" whereat Gertrude seemed pleased. "Oh, I’ll spring it on you one of these days," she smiled gayly. "Now will you have some tea or something to drink?" A very companionable person is Gertrude. Since, as a great man has said, a grand passion is as rare as a grand opera, I presume that notwithstanding novelists and romancers to the contrary, companionship is what virtually all successful marriages are based on. One thing my business experience has taught me thus far is a disgust with vague and indefinite conditions. The sooner Gertrude and I are married, the better I shall like it. Barely had I written down the last words above than something occurred to give them the lie. I am still shaken with anger at what I have learned. Alicia, whom I had thought to be in bed, rapped gently on my door and came in, her sweet candid face so charged with pain and alarm that I jumped from my chair at sight of her. I have seemed scarcely to notice her these months, yet I realize she has grown as dear to me as any of the other children. To see her suffering seemed poignantly intolerable. "What on earth," I gasped, "is the matter, Alicia?" She could scarcely speak for the tears that were choking her. "Is it any of the children?" "N-no, sir," she sobbed. "They—are—all right." "What on earth can it be then?" I demanded, putting my arm about this little Niobe and gently seating her in the big chair. "Come, my dear, tell me about it." She made an effort to control her sobs. "You are—going to—send me away," she wept. The same old story. That, I thought, must be this child’s obsession. "Am I?" I spoke as gently as I knew how, taking her little cold hand in mine, "and why am I going to do that?" "I don’t know," she sobbed bitterly. "I suppose because I am no use here—because you don’t want me." I laughed at her boisterously in an endeavor to shake her out of that notion. "And who," I asked, "has said anything of the kind?" She did not answer. "Was it Griselda?" "No, sir," she breathed. "Was it any of the children?" "Oh, no, Uncle Ranny—I mean Mr. Byrd. They like me." "What was it then?" I insisted gayly. "Come, out with it. I never heard such bosh. Come, tell me the whole story, Alicia." "I—I was in the square this afternoon," she began, drying her eyes with a very wet and crumpled little handkerchief, "playing with Jimmie while Laura and Ranny were roller-skating—" and she paused. "Yes, yes," I urged, "and then?" "A lady stopped to talk to me—it was Miss—Miss Bayard."