SUNDAY morning fell on the first day of September, and it was very hot--so hot that Mr. Carter refused to go to church. He was sitting in the shade of his library, in his shirt-sleeves and his stocking feet, when his wife and Emily returned from service. Emily went up to her room at once, but Mrs. Carter came into the library, took off her hat, and sat down to get cool. She was a little flushed and thoughtful. “The Denbighs were not in church,” she remarked after a moment. “I don’t know that I ever knew Colonel Denbigh to miss a Sunday, except when his son died. Do you remember, Johnson?” Mr. Carter nodded. He had stopped reading the Sunday paper and was slowly fanning himself with it. “Sensible man to stay at home,” he grunted. “People stare so at us!” Mrs. Carter complained. “Emily and I felt like a circus. I’m so glad we’ve got Leigh off to college at last!” Mr. Carter made no reply to this, but after an interval he muttered something about a young donkey. Mrs. Carter sighed. “Where’s William?” she asked in a whisper. Mr. Carter, who had become nervous under continued misfortune, started violently. “I don’t know. Do you happen to think he’s drowned himself?” “Johnson!” “I’m expecting anything,” said Mr. Carter desperately. “There’s only one sensible person in this family, and that’s Dan.” “Dan’s out at the Denbighs’--I don’t know what for. He’s been out there twice since Friday, and he’s worried. I can see it.” “Of course! He’s in love with that girl now, I reckon, and she won’t have a cripple.” “He isn’t a cripple!” cried his mother warmly. “He’s only lame; but it’s not that; papa--I think it’s something about--” She looked around a little flushed and added, in a whisper, “about Fanchon.” Mr. Carter said something short and cryptic and relapsed into silence. “I don’t feel that it’s right,” his wife continued bravely. “It’s worrying me, Johnson. William hasn’t--well, he hasn’t shown any feeling at all.” “He’s going to get a divorce.” William’s mother sighed. “I hate divorces,” she said at last. “We never had one in the family.” “That’s because you’re from South Carolina,” retorted her husband unfeelingly. “Can’t get one there, anyway.” Mrs. Carter disregarded this. “I don’t feel right about it. She--she saved Leigh.” Mr. Carter pursed his lips, moving his feet comfortably about on the rug. He and his wife had been over this ground before, and it irked him. He watched his toes moving inside of his coarse white stockings. There was a silence. The door-bell rang sharply. Mrs. Carter jumped. “Oh, Johnson, put on your coat and your shoes,” she cried. “Miranda’s let some one in.” Mr. Carter began to jam his hot feet into his shoes, which seemed incredibly too small to receive them. “Drat it!” he said. He had not got to the coat when Miranda’s amiable chocolate face appeared at the door. “Col’nel Denbigh, Mist’ Carter,” she said, and withdrew.