In the morning, when Mrs. Moreland lifted strained and sleepless eyes to the doorway, she was shocked until she shrank back in her chair. Junior was standing there, laughing at her. She could not see any trace of the dissipation of the night before upon his face or person. He had bathed and carefully dressed. He came across to her laughingly, and standing behind her chair, he tipped her head back against him and kissed her. He scolded her for the loss of sleep evident on her face. He assured her that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself and that she never again was to worry in case he drank a little more than he should. He didn’t care anything about the stuff; he simply drank it with the other boys when they wanted to have a celebration. He pointed out the fact that his father never had become intoxicated to a degree that in the slightest interfered with his business or with his social position in the community, yet he always had a drink whenever he wanted it. He really succeeded in reassuring her to such an extent that she went to her room and lay down to secure the sleep that she had lost. CHAPTER XI “THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT” When Mahala left Junior, she immediately hurried to her mother, forgetful of everything except that she wanted to be where she would not be subjected to further annoyance. She had forgotten, for the minute, what was in store for her the first time her mother found her alone. She was not allowed to forget very long. Instantly Mrs. Spellman had whispered in Mahala’s ear: “Where did those lilies and roses come from?” Mahala had taken time for mental preparation. “I hunted all I dared on the platform,” she said, “and I couldn’t find the card. I told Jemima, when she took my flowers home, to watch especially for it and to save it if she found one.” “Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know where such a thing as that came from?” demanded Elizabeth Spellman abruptly. She was trying to face Mahala down with deeply penetrant eyes. Mahala objected to having her good time spoiled by the ordeal she had known she was destined to undergo when the exquisite sheaf had been stood at her knees. She showed not the slightest inclination to avoid her mother’s eyes. She seemed capable of looking into them with the utmost frankness. “No, Mama,” she said quietly, “I haven’t any intention of telling you anything. If there’s a card that belongs to the flowers, Jemima will have found it by the time we reach home. If there isn’t, we will just have to make up our minds that somebody cares enough about me to make me a lovely gift, won’t we?”