Mr. Carter relapsed into a terrible silence. Mrs. Carter sat helplessly looking at him. She was thinking of that dance, that terrible, amazing, dazzling dance. What a pretty creature, too! That was it; she had turned William’s head; and Leigh’s and Emily’s, too. Those painted eyelashes! For a moment Mrs. Carter half laughed. “It’s funny--I can’t help it, Johnson,” she said, feebly apologetic, as she met his irate eyes. “I was thinking of Emmy trying to paint her lashes.” “I’m glad you think it’s funny,” he retorted hoarsely. “Don’t see the joke myself. I’ve got too much daughter-in-law, that’s my trouble!” “Hush! There’s some one now--they’ve come!” Mrs. Carter tiptoed to the door and listened, coming back, relieved. “No, it’s only Dan.” “I wish William had Dan’s sense!” “I wish Dan would marry a nice home girl. It would make things better,” sighed Mrs. Carter. “Daniel marry?” Mr. Carter raised his voice again to a roar of discontent and hopelessness. “Who d’you think Dan could marry? What kind of a girl d’you think would pick a cripple?” “Hush!” Mrs. Carter, very pale, rose and shut the door; but she was too late. Daniel, suspecting the trouble in the library, had started for his own room. The stairs were just outside the library door, however, and he could not help hearing every word his father said. In fact, Mr. Carter’s irate voice rang out like a trumpet. “What kind of a girl d’you think would pick a cripple?” Daniel, clinging to the banisters, ascended more wearily than usual. The stairs turned at the landing, and he was out of sight when his mother shut the door. He never used a cane in the house now. He was well enough to get along with a heavy limp, and he made no noise as he crossed the upper hall and went into his own room. Once there, he locked his door, and, crossing to the window, stood staring out with absorbed and thoughtful eyes. The night was perfect. A young moon had set, and there seemed to be, instead, a myriad of stars. He could discern, too, even in the darkness, the darker profile of the hills, and, nearer at hand, the clustering beauty of foliage, pierced here and there with the lights of near-by houses, which shone in the darkness, without any discernible outlines behind them, like fallen stars. The air was fragrant and soft, with the sweetness of flowering grapes, familiar and homelike, amid all that blended early blossoming. He could hear soft, blurred sounds, too--the hum of insect life, the piping of frogs, the murmur of the brook that flowed not a hundred yards away. He stood motionless, thinking, and glad of the cool night air on his hot cheeks and brow. He felt as if some one had dealt him a physical blow, and his bruised flesh was still quivering under it. “What kind of a girl d’you think would pick a cripple?”