Morning at Jalna. Mazo de la Roche

there was a framed photograph of the Whiteoaks taken in Quebec, soon after their arrival in Canada. They were shown as in a snowstorm which had been cleverly simulated by the photographer. The heavy curtains in this room had been drawn close. No breath of air stirred it.

      “Thank you, ma’am,” said one of the men.

      “Sit you down,” she said, “and I’ll tell Mr. Sinclair you’re here.” She looked benignly at the men out of her dark eyes.

      Again she was thanked. The three left alone drew sighs of relief and stretched their legs. They had travelled far under difficulties. Now they had arrived at their goal. In spite of weariness they were tense as they waited. They did not exchange a word.

      Adeline fairly flew up the stairs.

      Hanging over the banister was Nicholas.

      “Listening — you rascal!” she hissed. “Go to your room.”

      “Who are the three men, Mamma?” He was altogether too self-possessed, too bold, she thought. But she had no time to waste on him. She hastened up the stairs, her voluminous skirt gathered up in her hand. She tapped on the door of the Sinclairs’ room.

      It was opened to her by her son Ernest.

      Seeing her expression he said, in an apologetic voice, “I am only making a little call, Mamma.” He looked so sweet standing there in his green velveteen jacket and lace collar that she could not resist taking him into her arms and planting a maternal kiss on his cheek.

      “Come in — come in,” Lucy Sinclair called.

      “Where is Mr. Sinclair?” Adeline asked. She tried to speak calmly. “There are visitors for him.”

      “With your husband in the smoking room.” Lucy Sinclair sought to control her excitement.

      “I will run and tell him,” cried Ernest. He flew along the passage to the small room at the end and back. “Mr. Sinclair will go down directly, Mamma. Shall I take the message?”

      “No, no, it’s high time you went to bed.”

      Adeline swept down the stairs and made a conspiratorial entrance into the sitting room. She was astonished to find Augusta and Nicholas in amiable conversation with the three callers. She could hear Curtis Sinclair descending from above. She waited till he appeared, then swept her children out of the room. She pushed them ahead of her through the open front door into the porch; Augusta moving slowly, with an offended air; Nicholas executing a caper and throwing a glance of defiance over his shoulder at Adeline.

      “You’d give me a saucy look, would you?” she exclaimed and cuffed him on the ear.

      Augusta’s colour rose. “You have always told us, Mamma,” she said, “to make strangers welcome.”

      “No insolence from you,” said Adeline, “or you’ll get what I gave Nick.”

      “Who are those men?” Nicholas demanded unabashed. “They look rough. Not at all like Mr. Sinclair.”

      “It is none of your business who they are.”

      “Do you know?” he asked, with a mischievous smile.

      “Of course I know. But they are here on business connected with the Sinclairs’ estate. In this time of war it is necessary to keep their movements secret. So you must be careful not to mention this visit to anyone.”

      Dutifully they promised and she glided away, with a conscious air of mystery.

      “She is in her element,” said Augusta, looking critically after her mother.

      “You are trying to talk like Mr. Madigan,” said Nicholas. He put his arm about her waist that was not yet corseted, and urged her down the steps and onto the driveway. “Let’s dance,” he said. “One, two, three, and a kick to the left. One, two, three, and a kick to the right.”

      Willingly, for the night air, the glimmering starlight, made her reckless, Augusta joined in this dancing progress. Their supple bodies linked, they danced, like charming marionettes, along the drive to the gate, her long black hair floating behind her. At the gate they came to a sudden stop, listening. They heard the approach of a horse’s hooves, the rattle of buggy wheels. The horse was drawn up, as it neared the entrance. The children saw Titus Sharrow and the mulatto girl, Annabelle, alight. They saw him clasp her to him and give her a fervent kiss.

      In shocked surprise Augusta would have fled, but Nicholas held her by the arm. “We’ve got to know what’s going on,” he whispered.

      No whisper escaped the sensitive ears of the half-breed. In a bound he stood, half-menacing, half-apologetic, beside the brother and sister.

      “You watching me?” he demanded.

      Annabelle was hiding in some bushes.

      “Yes,” Nicholas said boldly. “We were trying to find out what you’re up to.”

      Tite spoke softly.

      “I was giving this poor horse a little exercise. Someone had tied him to the post by the gate and he was wild with the flies bothering him. So I took him for a little drive. It’d be best for you to say nothing about it. There are queer goings-on, you know.” There was a veiled threat in Tite’s soft voice.

      Brother and sister turned back toward the house. They stared with curiosity at the closed curtains of the sitting room. “Gussie,” said Nicholas, “what do you suppose they’re doing in there?”

      “Tite had no right to say there are queer goings-on,” she cried.

      “But who can those strange men be?”

      “They’ve escaped from the war, I am certain, and are seeking refuge with us.”

      “One thing is clear,” said Nicholas. “We must keep our eyes and ears open, and not repeat anything of what we have seen tonight to Ernest. He can’t keep a secret, you know.”

      “I feel the weight of it here.” And Gussie laid her hand on her chest.

      When quietly they entered the hall, they were just in time to see their mother carrying a tray with glasses and a decanter of wine on it. They were astonished to see her bearing this into the sitting room, for she was not in the habit of carrying trays about.

      “Why are you two loitering here?” she demanded. Then said, “Nicholas, go to the sideboard and fetch the biscuit box and be quick about it.”

      The tray in her hand, she waited for him, while Gussie surveyed the situation with disapproval.

      “Mamma,” said Nicholas, “do let me carry the tray for you.”

      She would not allow that, but he pressed through the door after her and passed the china biscuit-box. The Southerners regarded him distrustfully.

      “This boy,” Adeline said grandly, “is safe as a church. He would rather die than mention your coming.” And she gave her son a threatening look.

      When, a few minutes later, he rejoined Augusta, he was glowing with a sense of responsibility.

      “Hurrah!” he cried. “I’m up to my neck in this.”

      “Nicholas,” said Augusta, “I do wish you’d try to control yourself. You know how Mr. Pink preaches self-control. His last sermon was on that subject.”

      “Let him control himself and not be so long-winded,” said Nicholas loftily.

      Ernest appeared at the top of the stairs in his nightshirt which touched the floor and had a little starched frill around the neck.

      “You had better come up,” he said. “Mr. Madigan is lying on his bed singing and there is a bottle beside him.”

      Nicholas and Gussie bounded up the stairs.

      An air of mystery pervaded. Try as Philip would to lead a normal life, it was impossible with all this secretive coming