"It is my guess, Hezekiah," she resumed, "that before Elinor Dale died, the scales fell from her eyes and she knew the true Obadiah." Mrs. Henderson sighed. "Poor Elinor knew that she had to go. Too loyal to confide in any one, she wanted to fight his selfish influence over her baby girl after she had gone. Let me tell you what she did--the poor weapon she was forced to resort to, Hezekiah." The widow shook her head sorrowfully. "Elinor marked a poem in a book and pledged me to give it to Virginia on her eighteenth birthday. "This afternoon is one of the first fruits of the seed poor Elinor sowed years ago. Her daughter has grown, thanks to poor Serena's efforts--they ought to be successful because I don't believe that old negro ever bought the child a hat without taking it up in her prayers--into a beautiful woman. Fertile soil for the crop her mother would harvest, but--" Mrs. Henderson paused and her eyes flashed--"there is that Obadiah. Only the kindness of fate has kept Virginia from understanding him. When she does there will be a day of reckoning." Mrs. Henderson leaned towards Hezekiah and looked into his eyes with her own overflowing with a great tenderness. "My faithful brother," she whispered, "when that day comes won't you do your part in keeping that sweet girl happy even as she is trying to do it for these old ladies? In your way you can do more than I can, Hezekiah. Won't you do it for Elinor?" She hesitated for a moment and continued, very softly, very gently, "Won't you do it for me?" He returned Hennie's look, his face alight with tenderness. "I will, Mary," he promised. The activities of Mr. Jones at this period were interesting. Regardless of his aches and pains, he deemed it his duty, as Obadiah's private secretary, to assume an active part in making the entertainment a success. With this in mind, he had volunteered his services to Virginia. Rewarding him with a sweet smile, she had sent him for a cup of tea. Mr. Jones performed this errand with great expedition and dispatch, thereby winning the gratitude of an aged tea drinker. Virginia being busy, Mr. Jones determined to exhibit his zeal in so signal a manner that it might not be overlooked. Returning to the kitchen, he seized a tray of edibles and, bearing it forth, began to distribute its contents with great energy. Instantly, excitement seized the white coated waiters. They laid aside their trays and conferred. Soon, above the music, even above conversation, the notes of a whistle sounded. It was not the piercing call of a policeman or of a referee, it was not the pipe of a boatswain, it was rather the low, mourning call of a dove. As it smote the ears of Mr. Vivian he became as one transfixed with horror. He became ghastly pale as he recognized that the earnest efforts of Mr. Jones alone stood between the guests and famine.