Involuntarily Marjorie stiffened; she had dreaded the question. She dared not tell her aunt of Admiral Lawrence’s accusation. Their physician had warned her that Madame Yvonett must not be excited, or she would bring on one of her heart attacks. The last seizure two months before had been most severe, Marjorie having found her aunt lying unconscious on the floor of her bedroom. Knowing Madame Yvonett’s indomitable spirit she realized that nothing, save perhaps physical weakness, would prevent her from seeing Admiral Lawrence and demanding an instant retraction of his charge against her niece. Such scenes would undoubtedly bring on a return of her heart trouble, perhaps with fatal results. Marjorie turned cold at the thought; Madame Yvonett was very dear to her. But what excuse could she give for her dismissal except the truth? “I hear Mrs. Lawrence is not expected to live,” said Tom, breaking the slight pause. “Who told you that?” demanded Marjorie. “Chichester Barnard; I met him on my way here. By the way, he wished me to tell you he would not be able to go to Mrs. Marsh’s tea with you this afternoon on account of a business engagement,” he glanced curiously at her, but Marjorie was occupied in making bread pellets and it was several seconds before she spoke. “Mrs. Lawrence is critically ill. The Admiral is constantly at her bedside, and he cannot attend to his book, so Aunt Yvonett,” looking gravely at her, “my services are not required.” “I am glad that thee is to have a vacation,” replied the Quakeress; “but I am distressed to hear that Mrs. Lawrence is worse; she is a lovely woman, her husband can ill spare her.” “You must come over and spend the day at my quarters, Cousin Yvonett, now that Madge has time at her disposal,” broke in Tom. “The drills are being held every Friday afternoon, and I know you enjoy them.” “Thee is most kind, and if the weather permits we will come. Who was thy friend who came to the door with thee this morning, Thomas?” “Joe Cooper. I didn’t bring him in, Cousin Yvonett, because, to be frank, I don’t fancy the fellow.” “I thought he was quite nice,” announced Marjorie, arousing from her abstraction. “He is certainly most obliging.” “Boot-licking,” with scornful emphasis. “That’s hardly fair,” exclaimed Marjorie. “He had nothing to gain by being nice to me, and secondly, his father, J. Calhoun-Cooper, is a representative in Congress, and I am told, is very wealthy.” “He has money,” acknowledged Tom grudgingly, “and that’s about all. Joe’s grandfather started his fortune digging ditches in Philadelphia.” “I know now of whom thee speaks,” interposed Madame Yvonett. “But thee is mistaken; he didn’t dig ditches, he paved streets. Brother Hugh helped John Cooper to get his start in life; at one time he slept in our barn chamber.”