“Mother,” said Quincy from his position near the door, “I don’t want your automobile. Do you hear? If you call for it, I’ll not take it. I’ll not take it, even if it should come this very minute.” Sarah paused. “You’re a very ungracious boy,” she said slowly. His face turned pale, with a white fire. “Oh, am I?--Very well, then--.” He grasped his suit-case. Thrusting his hat low over his eyes, he dashed away. Adelaide returned to the head of the stairs. A cozy rough wool coat was close against her body; a brown cloth hat clustered with strawberries was atilt over her wavy hair. She saw her mother standing alone near the open door. “Has he gone?” she said. Sarah sighed. “The usual Quincy--” And as she went on, Adelaide descended. “I offered him the car and he flew into a passion--into a passion, and out of the house. Oh! Oh!” Now Adelaide was beside her. “One would think, the way he acts, we didn’t love him.” “We don’t love him right, Mama,” the girl spoke calmly and threw off her coat. Sarah turned on her with anger: “How dare you say that? What’s wrong with _you_ now? What do you mean?” “Well, it’s true. And he feels it.” All of Sarah’s suppressed emotion turned on her daughter. “Didn’t I offer him the machine, out of consideration?” she cried with a rasp in her voice. “Yes--at the last minute. For a guest, you’d have thought of it two hours ago.” “Well, what about _your_ suggestion. When did you think of offering to go with him?” “At the last minute, also, Mama.” “And does that prove you don’t love him?” “I didn’t say that.” “Does that prove you don’t love him enough?” “I didn’t say that either.” Sarah threw out her arms in a gesture of bewilderment. “I said we didn’t love him _right_,” Adelaide continued. Sarah gazed in silence at her daughter. She was awed by the conciseness of the answer, however little she understood it. Then, fronting her, she put her question. “Why?” The girl shook her head. “It’s not our fault. It’s in the house. It’s the spirit here. I can’t explain. But you should understand. We can’t help it. But he feels it. Yes,--he feels it.” She stopped and the two women were still. Both of them were looking far, vaguely, beyond the open door. “He’s gone, now,” said Sarah. II The morning of Quincy’s departure, it had rained. Then, it had cleared. To the plashy gloom of an autumn storm succeeded a sudden cheer of Indian Summer. When, in his “usual” manner, the boy dashed from the house, the sky was a shrill blue shredded with fragile clouds. And below foot, were still the puddles and grey odors of the rain. Filled with a painful, pleasurable sense of having been unjust, Quincy boarded a car at the corner. Then he alighted. There was so much time, he had decided to walk from the place of transfer--a trifling journey.