Ainslee's magazine, Volume 16, No. 3, October, 1905. Various

seemed to make the thing so irrevocable.

      He pulled himself together and walked nervously over to the window. Where on earth was the cab? It was a comfort to vent irritability on something.

      Then he roved over to the trunk he had packed with such forethought.

      He laughed a little bitterly.

      “Poor old Velantour! He will be disappointed, too,” he whispered. “But of the two old men who love me, one has to go to the wall. And it shan’t be dad.”

      He tramped up and down restlessly until he heard the sound of wheels.

      Then he called to Elenore.

      “I am going now.”

      “Not in this cab, you are not,” her voice answered him. “This is mine. Yours will be here in ten minutes, and you will have lots of time then.”

      “What?” he called, halfway to the door, and not believing his ears.

      The door swung open, and in it he saw – himself.

      Clad in loosely hanging dull gray velveteens, with a soft cravat the color of pigeon blood. Over his arm a long crimson-lined cape hung, half-concealing a suit case. The face, which was his, laughed at him triumphantly, and shook its dark hair, worn a trifle long, back from the forehead.

      In the disencumbered hand a soft felt hat waved him back with a dash of bravado.

      “Tell Berthe what you please when she comes with your cab,” his own voice cried gayly. “I’ve just time to catch the London train. You are for the east, I believe.” Then, as he stood thunderstruck, his double laughed exultantly.

      “There’s a letter, with copious details, on your dresser,” the apparition stated, with a lilt of pure joy of escapade. “Considering the shortness of the time, I think I’ve been marvelous in thinking out all possible exigencies.”

      And to his gesture of protest, of incredulity: “Don’t argue! You are to live the life you care for, for your three wonderful months, and so shall I. It’s not sacrifice. It’s selfishness. I want to go desperately. And I’ll write you here – volumes. You’ll find them when you get back.”

      Then that voice which was his, and was not his, chanted saucily:

      “Rue Boissonade

      Shall have its Claude,

      And l’Amerique

      The new Van Dyck;

      But Carrington

      Shall have his son.”

      The doorway was empty. He heard a cocher crack his whip, and a cab-horse evidently making record time. Five francs, mon Dieu, ça vaut la peine!

      Ned Carrington stood bewildered. What should he do? He might follow her – might make a scene – but he was always worsted when Elenore became daintily willful. She was quite capable of carrying it off, too. And it was a lark!

      A cab came clattering up the little street. The call of the East came to him with an overpowering lure. A wave of joy swept over him that he could go, after all. He felt a fury of impatience to be off. He grudged the time to give Berthe her instructions, to snatch Elenore’s letter from the dresser, to catch up his hat and coat. The mere thought to do these things should be enough. But Berthe’s willing feet were speeding up the stairway. He flung the rug from his more-than-ready trunk, and laughed as he touched the strap caressingly with his fingers.

      “I’m going!” he whispered; and the words sung themselves to the rhythm of rapture unalloyed.

      “Et puis, m’sieu?” said Berthe, breathlessly, from the doorway.

      CHAPTER II

      The case of the old-fashioned watch snapped together for the fortieth time in John Carrington’s restless hands, and he sighed impatiently.

      Not since those days of dread loneliness after his wife’s death, when he had first sent the children abroad, had time dragged so rackingly.

      His leonine, iron-gray head moved irritably among the pillows of the bed where he had been “caged,” as he called it, for three interminable weeks.

      Mrs. Kipley, tidying up the room with an accentuation of her usual briskness, gave him as indulgent a look as the formation of her rigid cast of countenance would permit.

      “Wearin’ out your watch case won’t hurry up that train none,” she observed, as she straightened a china cat on the mantel into an expectant attitude.

      It had been her gift the previous Christmas to John Carrington, and her admiration of it extended to the hope that it would pleasingly impress the returning traveler.

      “Miss Elenore was fondest of animals, though,” she murmured, absently.

      John Carrington’s eyes twinkled appreciatively. He did not share Mrs. Kipley’s admiration for her feline gift.

      “Ned will appreciate that cat, though, Mrs. Kipley,” he said, genially. “You know he’s been studying art;” but with the word a shadow came over his face.

      “It’s hard on the lad, bringing him back,” he said. “Yellow Dog will look pretty crude to him, I expect.”

      He moved his head restlessly, and the leg in its swinging splint became more exasperatingly painful.

      Of course it would be only natural for Ned to have grown away from home ties. It was an unspoken thought against which he had braced himself for all these ten days. If the boy came back half-heartedly, contemptuous of the place, indifferent to the mine, alienated from his father – that was the touch of the thumbscrew.

      And yet, he told himself wearily, six years was a long time. The boy was talented, cultured, used to all the refinements of an older civilization. What wonder if – And if he, through love for his son, and carrying out his mother’s wishes for his future, had been responsible for the separation which might mean all this?

      Ah, well, he was not the first father, nor the last, to think out these same things, and try to see them dispassionately.

      “He was real spry about starting,” said Mrs. Kipley.

      John Carrington’s face relaxed.

      “Caught the first boat,” he said. Then “Is his room ready and comfortable?” he demanded, as he had demanded many times.

      “I wouldn’t worry about that room none, if I was you,” said Mrs. Kipley, serenely.

      “Did you remember about the cigars and a decanter of whisky?” he asked.

      Mrs. Kipley looked at him in a patient exasperation.

      “They’s two kinds of cigars, every brand of cigarettes Kipley could lay hands on in Yellow Dog, the biggest decanter full of whisky, the motto ‘Love One Another,’ that my Sunday-school class worked for me last winter; red-white-and-blue soap in the soap dish, and two pincushions with a French motto worked on each of ’em. Hemmy did ’em in black and white pins. She thought’t would make it seem more like Paris to him. One says ‘Vive Napoleon,’ and the other says ‘Veuve Cliquot.’ Kind of twins, you see.”

      John Carrington’s mouth twitched. Then he frowned slightly. For would the boy understand? If he were not amused – if he were merely contemptuous!

      “Hemmy’s picking some flowers for the house now,” Mrs. Kipley went on, serenely. “And Kipley’s took a saddle horse besides the road wagon, so’s if Mr. Ned wanted to ride over, he could.”

      The case of John Carrington’s watch came open once more. If the train was on time, and Ned did choose the saddle horse, another ten minutes – But would he? The lad was a bit of a dandy. Carrington had smiled indulgently over some of his tailor’s bills. Probably you couldn’t coax him on a horse, even in Yellow Dog, unless he was arrayed in all the proper paraphernalia.

      But what was that clatter of horse’s hoofs – fast and furious – faster and more furious than any Yellow Dog had heard since