"She went upstairs less than half an hour since. Your bags, Miss Joan?" "Outside, Bates; I told the taxi man to dump them out any old place. Take them right up, if you please, Bates; there are some little things I bought on the other side, and I didn't forget you, either." Bates sobered. "Your room----" he began, but broke off suddenly, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Joan, in her excitement, did not notice. "Why, of course, my room!" she cried gayly, making for the stairs and taking the steps, two at a time. Bates stared after her, wagging his head sadly, and his thin shoulders moved with a lugubrious sigh. "Poor Miss Joan!" he murmured. "It's going to be an awful shock to her; I didn't have the heart to tell her. And her room, too!" He shambled out to the porch for the luggage. Reaching the upper hall, Joan went swiftly to the left wing of the house, where her mother had her private sitting room, bedroom, and bath. With a quick gesture she flung open the door and, arms reaching out eagerly, fairly leaped at the little gray-haired woman who sat by the window, reading. "Mumsey!" Before Mrs. Gilmore could get to her feet, the girl had swooped down on her in a cyclone of joy, smothering her with kisses and leaving her almost breathless with hugs. "I--I didn't expect you until to-morrow, dear," gasped Mrs. Gilmore. "Why didn't you wire and let us meet you at the station? Goodness, child, give me air!" "Oh, it's so much nicer to surprise people," laughed Joan. "How are you?" "We've all been well." Joan sat on the arm of the chair and cuddled her mother close. "It's so wonderful to be home again," she murmured happily. "It was a wonderful trip, my first sea voyage, and the Sharps were perfectly wonderful to me--all through southern France by motor--but there's no place in all the world like Greenacres. How is Kirk getting along with the new novel? Has he missed his severest critic?" An anxious, half-frightened look came into Mrs. Gilmore's face. "Kirklan," she answered slowly, an ominous note creeping into her voice, "hasn't been writing much during--during the past three weeks. He couldn't really be expected to, since----" Joan's fingers tightened about her mother's hand. "Mother! Something--something has happened to Kirk! Is he ill?" "No, dear, Kirklan is perfectly well, but he----" Again Mrs. Gilmore's voice came to a halting stop. "Why don't you tell me? The tone of your voice frightens me. What has happened to Kirk?" "An author can't be expected to do much writing, Joan, when--when he is on his honeymoon," Mrs. Gilmore finished faintly. She felt the girl's fingers, still resting across her own, tremble and become cold. Joan's face had turned ghastly pale and there was a stunned dullness in her dark eyes. "His--his honeymoon?" she whispered. "You mean----Oh, you can't mean that Kirk has married?" Mrs. Gilmore nodded.