Sam Appleby—young Sam—wanted to marry her—had wanted to for a year or more. Many times she had refused him, and many times he had returned for another attempt at persuasion. To consent to this would enable her to control the senior Appleby’s revelations. It would indeed be a last resort—she wouldn’t even think of it yet; surely there was some other way! The poor, tortured child was roused from her desperate plannings by a cheery voice, calling: “Maida—Maida! Here’s me!” “Jeffrey!” she cried, springing from the window-seat, and out to greet him. “Dear!” he said, as he took her in his arms. “Dear, dearer, dearest! _What_ is troubling you?” “Trouble? Nothing! How can I be troubled when you’re here?” “But you are! You can’t fool me, you know! Never mind, you can tell me later. I’ve got three whole days—how’s that?” “Splendid! How did it happen?” “Old Bennett went off for a week’s rest—doctor’s orders—and he said, if I did up my chores, nice and proper, I could take a little vacation myself. Oh, you peach! You’re twice as beautifuller as ever!” A whirlwind embrace followed this speech and left Maida, breathless and laughing, while her father smiled benignly upon the pair. It was some hours later that, as they sat under the big sycamore, Jeffrey Allen begged Maida to tell him her troubles. “For I know you’re pretty well broken up over something,” he declared. “How do you know?” she smiled at him. “Why, my girl, I know every shadow that crosses your dear heart.” “Do I wear my heart on my sleeve, then?” “You don’t have to, for me to see it. I recognize the signs from your face, your manner, your voice—your whole being is trembling with some fear or some deeply-rooted grief. So tell me all about it.” And Maida told. Not the last horrible threat that Samuel Appleby had told her alone, but the state of things as Appleby had presented it to Daniel Wheeler himself. “And so you see, Jeff, it’s a deadlock. Father won’t vote for young Sam—I don’t mean only vote, but throw all his influence—and that means a lot—on Sam’s side. And if he doesn’t, Mr. Appleby won’t get him pardoned—you know we hoped he would this year——” “Yes, dear; it would mean so much to us.” “Yes, and to dad and mother, too. Well, there’s no hope of that, unless father throws himself heart and soul into the Appleby campaign.” “And he won’t do that?” “Of course not. He couldn’t, Jeff. He’d have to subscribe to what he doesn’t believe in—practically subscribe to a lie. And you know father——” “Yes, and you, too—and myself! None of us would want him to do that, Maida!” “Doesn’t necessity _ever_ justify a fraud, Jeff?” The question was put so wistfully that the young man smiled.