An impulse to retire fluttered and died. She went to the piano.

"What shall I play?" she asked, almost gaily.

It was her husband who replied, and his voice sounded far away:

"If you don't mind, my dear, Cranston and I have a lot of tiresome things to talk over . . . another night—there'll be plenty of time for music-later!"

She felt suddenly as if a door had been closed in her face, and she had all the indignation of one put to the test of such an affront. She would not leave him alone with that man! She would not!

"Why," she pouted, "Mr. Cranston will be running away to-morrow. . . . I know these bankers-they never have time for anything but moneygrubbing!"

She had meant to be insulting and she knew that her shaft had struck home, but Cranston shielded his feelings behind a crafty smile.

"And what if I stayed for a week or two-just to disprove your statement, my dear Mrs. Hewitt? I'm anxious to see a prune crop safely harvested."

So that was it-he proposed staying, and he did not even intend to wait for an invitation! She rose from the piano shrugging her shoulders, and walked to the door without a word. At the threshold she hesitated. A sense of helplessness came over her. She was sure that her husband needed her, and yet there was nothing to do but leave the room. She waited for some sign from him, halting for the briefest fraction of a second, which seemed to her eternity. He cleared his throat, but nothing further came of it. She passed on, out into the night. The chill seemed welcome to her now.

She crossed the porch and glided down the steps, throwing her spangled after-dinner scarf about her dark hair. Little puffs of warm air came up caressingly from the tawny ground. Before her, row upon row, stretched the quiescent trees, bent and broken, and seared by the weakening burden of fruition. Between them, upon the drying trays,

VOL. CXL.-No. 839.-83

lay the purple yield that mellow springtime had spawned and thick-breathed summer had swaddled to perfect consummation.

"It's almost over," she said to herself, consciously repeating her husband's words.

But the thought no longer thrilled her. What was the use in feasting if a ghost were to sit forever at their table? She did not mind sharing her husband's virtues with another, but his shortcomings . . . She stopped short. What was she thinking of?

The wind veered suddenly. "It's from the south!" flashed through her mind. "Suppose it should rain, after all?"

And it struck her that she felt curiously undisturbed at this possibility. She went around by a devious path and climbed the back stairs to her bedroom.

She sat in the darkness, by an open window, thinking-reviewing the his tory of these past five years. How well she remembered the satisfaction with which she had met the news that her father-in-law's prune-orchard was to be their portion! A country place within motoring distance of town! How smart it had all sounded! But her husband had not shared her enthusiasm.

"A pretty expensive luxury!" he had replied, grimly.

But she had refused to be daunted, even with the story of Hewitt, Senior's, failure ringing in her ears. He had been an old man, of course, and too conservative. And he had been bitten unconsciously by the old-fashioned theory that the land's yield was in the hands of Fate. Furthermore, he didn't know how to market his product to advantage. In short, he played the part of country gentleman with perfect consistence, even to the inevitable detail of a steadily encroaching mortgage.

Of course her husband would change all that! He was a man of affairs, and he could command money in a crisis. There was really no reason why, in addition to

having a delightful summer home, they should not increase their income. Thus had Elizabeth Hewitt reasoned from her comfortable position on the side-lines. Participating in the game was different. She came to think, in due season, that such ventures were in the lap of the gods, after all. The first year had come a frost, and the second a drying wind at just the wrong season. Again, a prolonged drought had reduced the crop to a shadow. Finally, the bottom had dropped out of the market, and the returns from a good yield had barely paid for the harvesting. And all the time the sloping hillside sucked up money like a greedy mistress who lured with false promises and mockingly withheld her favors.

Owning a country place was not a delight, but a responsibility, and all through the long, hot, palpitant summer Elizabeth Hewitt found herself chained to a rock of petty cares and worries and details, while George slaved in town for wherewithal to pour into the insatiable maw of this relentless enterprise. Not that his earnings could satisfy the demands upon him! The salary of a bank cashier might be almost opulent as other salaries went, but it had small place in stemming the tide of a horticultural disaster. At first it had all been very poetic-the snow-white springtime of blossoming, the green-gold summer of swelling fruit, the wine-purple autumn of consummation. From bud to final From bud to final ripening, the prim, slender trees had revealed the seasons colorfully and with fragrant symbols. And in the richness of these dew-starred pageantries Elizabeth Hewitt sometimes forgot to regret the shallower delights in which her first hopes had indulged. But presently this procession from bloom to fruition became blurred by the mists of an ever-increasing anxiety. She began to feel a disquiet at the circumstance that had once reassured her at the fact that her husband was a man of affairs and could command money in a crisis. It bore in upon her that a man lacking easy access to

capital might have been less tempted to prolong the agony. At the beginning, she had known the sources of supply-an expansion of the first mortgage, the profit from a quick sale of an active stock, the grudging help from a reluctant relation, a friendly boost or two. But, as time went on, his financial course became blurred and finally lost in a series of quick turns and evasions. She remembered the chill that had swept her on that day when in answer to her usual frank questions about finances he had replied, curtly:

"I've managed to arrange things for a while longer. . . you needn't worry." Later when she had pressed him, tactfully, though a bit tremulously, he had been less sharp but quite as unyielding:

"Don't think about it. . . . I'll pull through somehow."

You needn't worry! Don't think about it! Did a man fancy that anxiety and fear and loyalty were subject to command? That the blossoms of peace and contentment could flourish in the dark?

Presently she ceased to prod him, and when that moment came she had a sick realization that something had died within her. Could it be that her flame of faith had been blown out?

This year she had followed the usual seasonal progressions, parted lipped, every nerve strained to anxious attention. Bud, blossom, harvest-she had hung upon each successful unfolding until her very senses ached with the tautness of concentration. As late as yesterday the victory had seemed assured.

She rose from her place before the open window. It was long past midnight. She thrust her hand out into the night. The wind had died. Anything might be possible-a swift downpour or an equally sharp clear-up of the threatening clouds. She went to the door and opened it, listening. The low rumble of voices came to her. George Hewitt's clipped laugh, the acrid pungency of sťale tobacco. Why didn't they break up and come to bed?

She stepped back from the threshold and closed the door. Presently she began to undress. She was braiding her hair when she heard the tramp of feet coming up the stairs. She tried to be calm, but her husband's nearness was disturbing.

When he came into the room she pretended to be very busy with the thick black strand of hair in her hand. Sitting before her dressing-table mirror, she caught glimpses of his face. She was not reassured.

"Well," she yawned at last, "I'm glad you've decided to turn in. Mr. Cranston will bless us as it is in the morning when his alarm goes off!"

He did not reply at once. "His alarm won't be going off," he answered, throwing aside his collar.

She tossed her braid backward with a quick gesture. "You mean he really intends to stay here?"

"Yes," he flung out, sharply. "Is there anything so extraordinary in that?"

She leaned close to the mirror, drawing her upraised forefinger across her eyebrows. "I didn't know it was policy for two people from the same department to be away from a bank. How long is he going to stay?"

He frowned savagely. "A weekmaybe two."

She rose and faced him. "In other words, he intends to see the prunes safely harvested. Just what is Cranston's interest in our crop?"

She had never questioned him defiantly before and she could see that her attitude had confused him. He was off guard and unprepared.

"I know he hasn't any money," she went on, relentlessly, "so he can't have any personal financial interest. And I also know that a banking institution doesn't lend to its employees, so he can't be here in the interest of the firm. But I do know one thing-he's not staying for pleasure!"

He made a weary gesture as he leaned against the chiffonier. "Do you really want me to tell you?" he demanded.

Her hands fell from their folded position on her breast. For a moment she stood inactive, gripped with the sudden terror of an impending flash that she knew would blind her.

"No," she answered, weakly, "perhaps you'd better not."

She turned and sank down in her seat before the dressing-table, and she made. a pretense of drawing her ivory comb. through her imprisoned hair.

He went to the window; he threw it higher. A keen current of air stirred a spent rose upon the casement to swift showering.

"It's clearing up," he cried out, buoyantly. "The wind's from the

The morning broke clear and cloudless. The effect of the potential rainstorm had been almost as complete as if a sullen torrent had descended to wash the air clean of its dust-golden haze. Elizabeth laid the breakfast-table out in the open, upon the porch, in spite of the air's fresh tang.

Cranston and her husband came down together, arm in arm. Elizabeth gave them a swift sidelong glance and almost at that moment she saw George Hewitt disentangle himself from his friend's proprietary embrace. She put slices of