"Why, yes, Millie," apologized the father; "I looked for cookies, but I couldn't find any. He said he liked doughnuts, and he did seem to relish 'em; he eat several." "That awful rich man! Why, Paw Burson!" The young woman gave an awe-stricken glance about her, as if expecting to discover some lingering traces of wealth. "Doughnuts!" she repeated helplessly. "Why, Millie," faltered the father, mildly aggressive, "I don't see why being rich should take away a man's appetite; I'm sure I hope I'll never be too rich to like doughnuts and cider." "Didn't you give him a napkin, paw?" queried the younger girl. "No," said the father meekly, "he had his handkerchief. I coaxed him to stay to dinner, but he couldn't; and I asked him to drive out some day with his wife and daughter--he hasn't but one--they lost a little girl when she was seven"-- The man's voice quivered on the last word, and died away. Mrs. Burson went hurriedly into the house. She reappeared at the door in a few minutes without her bonnet. "Erastus," she said gently, "will you split me a few sticks of kindling before you put away the team?" * * * * * Mrs. Burson was fitting a salad-green bodice on her elder daughter. That young woman's efforts to see her own spine, where her mother was distributing pins with solemn intentness, had dyed her face a somewhat unnatural red, but the hands that lay upon her downy arms were much whiter than those that hovered about her back. A dining-table, bearing the more permanent part of its outfit, was pushed into a corner of the room, and covered with a yellow mosquito-net, and from the kitchen came a sound of crockery accompanied by an occasional splash and a scraping of tin. Now and then the younger girl appeared in the doorway and gazed in a sort of worshipful ecstasy at her sister's splendor. "Do you think you'll get it finished for the Fiesta, maw?" she asked, between deep breaths of admiration. Mrs. Burson nodded absently, exploring her bosom for another pin with her outspread palm. Her husband came into the room, and seated himself on the edge of the rep lounge. His face had a strange pallor above the mask of his beard. "You're home early, Erastus," she said; then she looked up. "Are you sick?" she asked with anxiety. "Mr. Anthony is dead," Burson said huskily. "Dead! Why, Erastus!" Mrs. Burson held a pin suspended in the air and stared at her husband. "Yes. He dropped dead in his chair. Or rather, he had some kind of a stroke, and never came to. It happened more than a week ago. I went in to-day, and Rufus told me." Mrs. Burson returned the pin to her bosom, and motioned her daughter toward the bedroom door. "Go and take it off, Millie," she said soberly. She was shamefacedly conscious of something different from the grief that stirred her husband, something more sordid and personal.