Chapter 07 – Fiduciary (Trust) Funds

Essentials of Accounting for

Governmental and Not-for-Profit
Organizations 11th Edition Copley
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CHAPTER 7 Fiduciary (Trust) Funds

7-1. THE ANSWERS TO THIS, AND TO THE FIRST EXERCISE OF CHAPTERS 1 THROUGH 9 WILL
VARY FROM STUDENT TO STUDENT, ASSUMING EACH HAS A DIFFERENT CAFR.

AGENCY FUNDS

7-2 . GASB STANDARDS REQUIRE THAT GOVERNMENTS ACCOUNT FOR SPECIAL ASSESSMENT
ACTIVITIES IN AN AGENCY FUND IF THE GOVERNMENT HAS NO OBLIGATION (PRIMARY
OR SECONDARY) TO ASSUME RESPONSIBILITY FOR DEBT PAYMENTS, EVEN IF THE
PROPERTY OWNERS DEFAULT.

IF THE GOVERNMENT HAS ANY OBLIGATION (INCLUDING GUARANTEEING THE DEBT) FOR
THE NOTE, THEN THE SPECIAL ASSESSMENT TAX RECEIPTS SHOULD BE REPORTED IN THE
DEBT SERVICE (OR GENERAL FUND) AS FUNDS RESTRICTED FOR EXPENDITURE ON
INTEREST AND PRINCIPAL ON LONG-TERM DEBT.

7-3 (A). BENTON COUNTY TAX AGENCY FUND

7-1
 Chapter 07 – Fiduciary (Trust) Funds

GENERAL JOURNAL
FY 2013/2014
DEBITS CREDITS
1. TAXES RECEIVABLE FOR OTHER GOVERNMENTS-CURRENT $39,800,000
DUE TO OTHER FUNDS AND UNITS $39,800,000
51,300,000 – 11,500,000

2. CASH 19,544,000
TAXES RECEIVABLE FOR OTHER GOVERNMENTS-CURRENT 19,544,000

3. DUE TO OTHER FUNDS AND UNITS 19,544,000

DUE TO BENTON COUNTY GENERAL FUND 293,160
DUE TO TOWN OF THOMAS 4,008,950
DUE TO TOWN OF HART 1,002,730
DUE TO BENTON COUNTY SCHOOL DISTRICT 11,299,920
DUE TO VARIOUS SPECIAL DISTRICTS 2,939,240

AMOUNT ADJUSTMENT NET

COMPUTATIONS: COLLECTED FOR FEE DUE
BENTON COUNTY GENERAL FUND 293,160 $ 293,160
TOWN OF THOMAS 4,070,000 (61,050) 4,008,950
TOWN OF HART 1,018,000 (15,270) 1,002,730
SCHOOL DISTRICT 11,472,000 (172,080) 11,299,920
VARIOUS SPECIAL DISTRICTS 2,984,000 (44,760) 2,939,240
TOTALS $19,544,000 -0- $19,544,000

7-2
 Chapter 07 – Fiduciary (Trust) Funds

4. DUE TO BENTON COUNTY GENERAL FUND 293,160

DUE TO TOWN OF THOMAS 4,008,950
DUE TO TOWN OF HART 1,002,730
DUE TO BENTON COUNTY SCHOOL DISTRICT 11,299,920
DUE TO VARIOUS SPECIAL DISTRICTS 2,939,240
CASH $19,544,000

7-3 (B). BENTON COUNTY GENERAL FUND

GENERAL JOURNAL
2013/2014
DEBITS CREDITS
1. TAXES RECEIVABLE-CURRENT 11,500,000
ESTIMATED UNCOLLECTIBLE CURRENT TAXES 230,000
REVENUES CONTROL 11,270,000
2. CASH 5,975,000
TAXES RECEIVABLE-CURRENT 5,975,000
3. DUE FROM TAX AGENCY FUND 293,160
REVENUES CONTROL 293,160

4. CASH 293,160
DUE FROM TAX AGENCY FUND 293,160

7-3 ( C).
TOWN OF THOMAS
GENERAL FUND
GENERAL JOURNAL
FY 2013/2014

DEBITS CREDITS
1. TAXES RECEIVABLE-CURRENT 6,400,000
ESTIMATED UNCOLLECTIBLE CURRENT TAXES 128,000
REVENUES CONTROL 6,272,000
3. DUE FROM TAX AGENCY FUND 4,008,950
EXPENDITURES CONTROL 61,050
TAXES RECEIVABLE-CURRENT 4,070,000
4. CASH 4,008,950
DUE FROM TAX AGENCY FUND 4,008,950

7-3
Chapter 07 – Fiduciary (Trust) Funds

PRIVATE-PURPOSE TRUST FUNDS

7-4. IN DETERMINING THE APPROPRIATE FUND TO RECORD THE TRUST, IT IS IMPORTANT TO

DETERMINE: (1) WHETHER THE TRUST BENEFITS THE GOVERNMENT OR ITS CITIZENRY OR
(2) ALTERNATIVELY WHETHER THE TRUST BENEFITS INDIVIDUALS, PRIVATE
ORGANIZATIONS OR OTHER GOVERNEMNTS.

(1) IF THE TRUST BENEFITS INDIVIDUALS, PRIVATE ORGANIZATIONS OR OTHER

GOVERNMENTS, IT SHOULD BE REPORTED IN THE PRIVATE-PURPOSE TRUST FUND, A
FIDUCIARY TYPE FUND.

(2) IF THE TRUST BENEFITS THE GOVERNMENT OR ITS CITIZENRY, IT IS IMPORTANT TO

DETERMINE WHETHER THE TRUST PRINCIPAL (A)MUST BE MAINTAINED OR (B) IF IT CAN
BE EXPENDED FOR PURPOSES SUPPORTED BY THE TRUST.

a. IF THE TRUST PRINCIPAL MUST BE MAINTAINED, THE TRUST SHOULD BE REPORTED IN

A PERMANENT FUND.
b. IF THERE IS NO REQUIREMENT TO MAINTAIN THE PRINCIPAL, IT SHOULD BE REPORTED
IN A SPECIAL REVENUE FUND.

7-4
Chapter 07 – Fiduciary (Trust) Funds

7-5
ALGONQUIN SCHOOL DISTRICT
SCHOLARSHIP TRUST FUND
GENERAL JOURNAL
FISCAL YEAR 2014
DEBITS CREDITS
ADDITIONS-INVESTMENT EARNINGS-INTEREST 73,400
DEDUCTIONS-INVESTMENT EARNINGS-NET
INCREASE IN FAIR VALUE OF INVESTMENTS 3,000
NET ASSETS HELD IN TRUST FOR SCHOLARSHIPS 1,600
DEDUCTIONS-ADMINISTRATIVE EXPENSES 6,000
DEDUCTIONS-DISTRIBUTIONS OF SCHOLARSHIPS 72,000

ALGONQUIN SCHOOL DISTRICT

SCHOLARSHIP TRUST FUND
FOR THE YEAR ENDED JUNE 30, 2014
ADDITIONS:
INVESTMENT EARNINGS:
INTEREST INCOME $ 73,400
NET INCREASE IN FAIR VALUE OF INVESTMENTS 3,000
TOTAL ADDITIONS
76,400
DEDUCTIONS:
ADMINISTRATIVE EXPENSES 6,000
DISTRIBUTION OF SCHOLARSHIPSNPROFIT ORGANIZATIONS 72,000

TOTAL DEDUCTIONS 78,000

CHANGE IN NET ASSETS (1,600)

NET ASSETS-BEGINNING 1,253,600

NET ASSETS-ENDING $1,252,000

7-5
Another document from Scribd.com that is
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 Bob, intending naturally to hide the family sorrow from sight, got up
and went to the stairs and called up:

"Martha, here's Johnnie."

He got no answer, and repeated it shouting.

Martha opened her door and answered:

"I'm busy. I haven't got time to see him."

"Come in again later," Bob said to him. "She's dressing, or

something."

But Johnnie wasn't satisfied.

"Well—I want to—— No. This is important. I can't wait. I'm in a

hurry."

Bob shouted up again:

"Martha! Johnnie's in a hurry! It's something important. Come on

down."

Johnnie heard her answer. Emily heard it. There was no

misunderstanding it.

"I'm not coming down. I don't want to see him."

"I'm not going away till I see her."

"What's the matter?" asked Emily, annoyed by his persistence. He

stood there as if he was planted deep in the rug.

"Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, I want this announced. We're engaged.

Maybe we ought to have told you before, but it's going to be announced
right now."

"Who's engaged?" Bob exclaimed.

"Martha and I."

 "Why, Johnnie!" Emily babbled. She had suddenly leaned forward,
and was sitting up, looking at the boy.

He grew red, but his eyes never wavered under her scrutiny. He was
dead in earnest, for once. "You ask her to come down," he begged.

Emily got up slowly. Was she, then, waking from a hideous

nightmare? Oh, if it was only some nice boy like Johnnie that could
make the girl's voice shake!

"Martha!" she called up, and her voice was so alive with excitement
that Martha came to the top of the stairs.

"What is it, mother?" she asked, eager for conciliation.

"Come down here, Martha!"

So Martha came down. She came into the living room slowly, warily.
She looked at Johnnie. She looked at her mother inquiringly.

"Martha," said Emily, quietly, "Johnnie says—— You tell her," she
said to him.

"Martha, we're going to announce our engagement to-day. Right

now!"

The girl stood looking at him steadily in composed disapproval.

"Whom are you engaged to? Why the excitement?"

"I'm engaged to you, Martha." He wasn't going to be fooled with.

"What a——" It seemed plain that she was about to say "lie," but she
thought better of dignifying his statement by emphasis.

"What makes you say a thing like that?" she asked.

"You know very well what makes me say it."

Bob could not tolerate her indifference.

"Are you engaged to him or not?" he demanded.

 "I certainly am not," she said. "Is that all you wanted?" she asked her
mother.

"Now look here, Martha," Johnnie burst out with determination, "it's
time to stop this fooling. That other thing's announced. That's in the
paper. This is going to be announced."

"What's in the paper?" Bob cried, suspiciously.

"Everything except her name. Everybody knows who it is." And

Johnnie stopped short in confusion, looking at Emily. "You were crying
——" he pleaded for his excuse, lamely. "I thought you knew."

Bob had jumped for the paper. "What is it?" he cried.

"I thought, of course, you had seen it." And as Bob urged him, he
pointed to it almost without looking, as if he knew by heart the very
place the words had in their column. And Bob read, spluttering, gurgling:

"Mrs. Richard Quin, who has been visiting her father, returned this
morning to Chicago to start divorce proceedings against her husband.
She names as corespondent the daughter of a prominent family of this
town."

"I thought, of course, you knew," Johnnie murmured.

"He did," said Martha. "I told them."

Emily had been to look over Bob's shoulder. She was taking the paper
into her own hands, as if, unless she looked at it closely, she could not
believe the words.

"You didn't tell us THIS! You said HE was getting the divorce!" She
had reduced Bob again to spluttering.

"What difference does it make?" she murmured. And Bob could only
echo her words dazedly. But Johnnie was challenging her.

"As soon as I saw you were in trouble, I made up my mind. I'm not
going to wait any longer." There was no mistaking either his words or his
tone.
 "Oh!" And then, "Am I in trouble?" She spoke with indifferent
curiosity, as if the idea was unimportant to her. "What trouble am I in?"

"My God!" Bob shouted at her. "Are you in trouble! Cut that out, I tell
you. You ought to be thankful to get a decent man to marry you, after
this."

She paid no attention to him. She was still looking imperturbably at

Johnnie.

"You think it is a disgrace, I suppose, to have my name connected

with his. So you come over and offer to marry me. To give me your
precious name! Are you going into the movies, Johnnie?"

It is altogether likely that Bob, at this point, would have seized her by
the arm and given her that shaking she had been so long inviting, if into
the room just then had not stalked the cause of Johnnie's haste. His
mother seemed to be perfectly in tune with the occasion, for she
demanded, excitedly, having looked about and fixed her eyes on Emily:

"What has he been saying? I told you I'd tell the Kenworthys! Emily,
what has Johnnie been saying to you?"

Before Emily could answer, Bob, to save her the trouble, exclaimed:

"He says he's engaged to her!" And then from those four, Emily being
at one side, in less than a minute there came a volley of sharp sentences,
as if they were standing in a circle firing at a target in the center.

Instantly Mrs. Benton exploded:

"Well, he isn't! He can't be! I will NOT give my consent! He can't

stop school. He never earned a cent in his life. I won't allow him to
marry! Understand that!"

Johnnie, ignoring her, cried to Bob, "I CAN earn my living!"

"You can't!" Mrs. Benton fired on him. "I will NOT support your
wife!"

"Who asked you to?" Bob demanded. "I'll give you a job, Johnnie! I'll
see you don't starve!"
 And crack! crack! Martha spoke quietly, scornfully, to Mrs. Benton:
"You needn't worry! I have not the least intention of marrying him!"

"You will marry him!" Bob popped. "You'll drop that skunk and marry
him, or you'll get out of this house. I'm not going to stand any more
nonsense from you!"

A fusillade from the heavy artillery.

"Whose house is this, anyway, Bob Kenworthy? What right have you
got to turn anyone out of it? If I was Emily I'd turn YOU out for saying
such a thing! I tell you I won't have Martha to support!"

"Don't you worry! I don't feel the need of you for my mother-in-law!"
Martha Kenworthy dared to turn directly to her father. "This'll be my
house some day, and I'll turn you all out if I want to!"

Emily, still holding that staggering newspaper in her hand, heard these
dangerous sentences bursting around her child; they weren't saving her—
they were destroying her. A panic took possession of her—and fury. And
she rose with almost a jump and seized Martha by the arm. These four
sharpshooters saw something that they had never seen before. Anger
unused for many years cuts sharp. Emily, with it, mowed them down.

"Keep still!" she cried to Martha. "Don't say another word! I'm
ashamed of you! Go up to your room, and don't you come down till you
apologize!" But she stood holding her tightly by the arm and glaring
about her. Her eyes were fixed on Mrs. Benton. "You stand there saying
things as if you could unsay them! A nice example you set these
children!" She turned to Bob. "Isn't this MY house?" Bob Kenworthy
had never been asked in all his married life before to acknowledge that
fact. "And you come here," she went on, furiously, to Cora Benton, "and
turn people out of it!"

She stopped, and from sheer amazement no one uttered a word. She
glared at them all.

"Johnnie, you go home! You're the only one that seems to have any
sense left! I don't know whether we're fit for you to associate with! You
better turn Bob out of the garage, and I'll turn your mother out of her
house, and we'll be done with it!" And she sent her dumfounded
daughter upstairs with an unmistakable gesture.

Johnnie went slowly out of the front door.

Chapter Five

Emily turned upon the subdued adults in front of her. She spoke first
to Bob.

"You call Martha a fool! You say that she's foolish! If I ever saw
anything in my life to equal you two! I should think you'd be glad
Johnnie wants to marry a nice girl like Martha!" she cried to Mrs.
Benton.

"I'm not objecting to Martha, Emily; you know that. He hasn't any
business to begin talking about marriage at his age! A nice husband he
would make for anybody. He never earned a cent in his life; you know
that." She spoke guardedly now.

"Why shouldn't he be thinking about marriage at his age? It's exactly

the age he would think about it! I tell you they could both do a lot worse
than this. I wish she would marry him. But you went and told her to,
Bob. You're a perfect idiot, sometimes. She'll never marry him now."

"She'll never get anybody to marry her if she don't watch her step.
Getting mixed up in cases like this!"

"You don't need to worry about this case, Emily," Mrs. Benton
announced. "I'll settle that. I told Johnnie he needn't get so excited.
Everybody in town will know, the minute they see that item, that French
put it there for spite, because we did build our parking place there. I'm
going to make him apologize. I'm going to call my committee together at
once. The family of every woman on it is not going to be at the mercy of
that unscrupulous man. First Johnnie's play; then this about Martha.
Johnnie says she's only played golf a little with him. I'm going straight
down to his office. I've got to go before Johnnie gets there. He wants to
fight him, of course!" She actually started towards the door.

"You keep your hands off this case!" Bob cried at her, looking at
Emily.

She faced about angrily towards him.

"I'm going to have an understanding with that man!" But she too
stopped to look at Emily.

"You leave this to me! It's none of your business!" Bob commanded,
excitedly.

"It certainly is my business, and I'm going to see about it!" She turned
defiantly to go.

But Emily rushed between her and the door, and she was desperate. If
Cora Benton knew all the truth, would she dare to ask for an apology?

"This is my case!" she cried, "If you take it up I'll never speak to you
again as long as I live! I'll go over to French! I'll go over to the other
side! And if you promise me now—that you won't—not say a word to
him till we think it over, I tell you I'll never let Martha marry Johnnie! I'll
get him to go back to college! I'll persuade him! Honestly, Cora! Bob, go
and stop Johnnie! Find out where he is! Don't let him do anything!"

He obeyed. Standing at the screen door, the two women watched him
hurry down the street. Emily turned her head suddenly, hearing a strange
noise. Could Mrs. Benton be sniffling? Yes. Into those kingly black eyes
suddenly tears came springing.

"Emily—I feel—bad about this! I'm sorry for you! I know how I felt
when I saw—about Johnnie—in that paper. And it's worse for a girl!"

"Cora, honestly, I don't think Martha intends marrying Johnnie. I only

wish she did!"

"You aren't worried about her, Emily?"

"Oh yes! I'm worried. I'm—sick—about this, Cora. Don't say a word
to anyone yet! I'll tell you all about it. I'll tell you what to say to people
for me—as soon as I can! I haven't had time—even to talk to her yet—
since I saw it in the paper! Martha'll apologize to you, Cora; I'm sure she
will!"

"Oh, don't worry about that, Emily! I know just how you feel! Haven't
I cried myself to sleep often enough about that boy to understand!"

Emily had opened her red eyes in astonishment at this statement.

"You might be thankful she's a girl. I'll tell you now, Emily, since this
has happened—that I've told Johnnie plainly if he doesn't settle down
and do some work next term, I'll never leave him a cent. I'll leave my
money to charity. I'd rather leave it to the town council to manage. When
I think of the man my father was——" She spoke sniffling, wiping her
eyes angrily. Emily had to comfort her.

"Oh, well, Cora, he's young yet."

"No, he isn't young. He's at least two years behind most boys. He
ought to have finished college two years ago. Look at Jim Black. Look at
Wilton! I tried to have a serious talk with him when he came home. If
only he'd take something seriously. Why can't he take up medicine? I
asked him why he wouldn't take up law and go into politics. And he said
maybe he would. He said, Emily, 'Look where Landis got to by being a
lawyer!'" She almost sobbed. "He meant that horrid federation of
baseball clubs. He was serious about that."

"But, Cora, he is a good boy. He has a nice disposition."

"Oh yes. I know what people say. He needs it, they say, to live with
me. But they never think what patience I need. Emily, I'd be ashamed to
tell you how much he spent last year. I don't know what to do with him. I
can't threaten to take him out of college—he doesn't want to go back,
anyway. He'll have to go back! He's just got to get his degree. And now
Bob goes and encourages him. He says he'll support him!"

"Cora, Bob was just excited. He didn't mean that. He wouldn't support
him a minute, really. He lost his head, really."

"Well, so did I. I acknowledge that. But it's a nice thing to have him
telling me not to interfere. As if it was none of my business when my
own boy married. I've got a headache, Emily. I had a bad night. He
brought me my breakfast himself and was so nice about everything. And
then—I was napping—he tore into the room with the paper in his hand
and said he was going to get married right away—the first I'd heard of it.
And he wouldn't listen to me. He acted awful. I just got up and dressed
and came over this way." She made a gesture towards the old blue
foulard she had slipped on. Her hair wasn't so brushed and shining as
usual, and her face was lined now, and her eyes red. "I thought I ought to
tell you."

"Cora, why don't you go and see a doctor in Chicago? You aren't well.
You are tired out, and he oughtn't to have excited you this way. I think
you ought to go home and go to bed, and I'll come over and tell you later
everything Bob says to French. I'll talk to Johnnie, too. I think Bob will
be sorry he said such things, Cora, when he cools down."

"He'd better cool down. The idea of him speaking to Martha that way!
I felt sorry for her, and for you too, Emily. It's bad enough to have to try
to raise a child without a father to interfere all the time. You've got them
both on your hands to manage."

"I don't know about that!" Emily started to protest, loyally. They were
standing face to face in front of the screen door, and they saw Eve drive
up and come towards them. She had been crying, too. She spoke to them
quietly, going into the living room. Mrs. Benton went away, and Emily
came in and sat down by her, and almost at once Eve had insinuated
herself into Emily's arms, crying:

"Oh, don't blame me for this, Mrs. Kenworthy. I told Martha this
would happen. I told her as sure as she lived something like this would
happen."

"Something like what? Don't cry, child!"

Bob was coming in.

"We——, I've settled Johnnie," he announced. And then he saw Eve,

and the sight displeased him.

"What do you know about this?" he demanded, shortly.

 "Don't blame me! I did tell her! I told her it would happen. Maybe I
didn't tell her enough."

"Enough what?"

"I mean—I didn't tell her, really, it had happened before."

"What had?" Bob scorned vagueness.

"I told her my sister was—jealous. I told her she couldn't stand that
pig even looking at a woman. I told her if he did, she was sure to make a
row. She's done this before."

"What has she done before?"

"Once before she got jealous—of a girl—and she threatened to—

divorce him."

"You mean—she named her—as a corespondent?" Bob had no

scruples about cross-examining this witness.

"She threatened to. She hadn't any case, really. Oh!" Eve cried to
Emily. "You didn't like me for not liking her. You thought I—said—nasty
things about her—because she was my sister. If you knew what I might
have said, you wouldn't have always been looking at me that way—as if
I was a sort of underbred scrub! I tell you she's despicable!"

"Oh, Eve!" Emily protested.

"What's she done?" cried Bob, eagerly.

"Oh, she's awful! Look at this dirty work. Dad'll make her apologize. I
know he will, Mrs. Kenworthy. I've telegraphed for him to come home.
He'll come right away. He'll think grandma's dying."

"What?" cried Bob. "What'll he do, Eve?"

"I know dad'll settle it. I know he will. She never meant to divorce
him. She just wants to frighten Martha because she's got money."

"You mean—— Isn't she going to divorce him?" Bob insisted.

 "No. Don't you ever think she is! Oh——" cried Eve, in bitter
humiliation, as if now she was compelled to confess the worst, "Mrs.
Kenworthy, she—she LOVES that pig! You Wouldn't believe it, maybe.
She cries herself sick if he looks at anybody! And ever since she heard
that Martha's got money she's been just wild."

"What's that got to do with it?"

An outraged parent on either side of Eve was trying to grasp the

situation.

"She knows he won't—leave her, or anything, for anybody without

any money. She thinks Martha's going to be awfully rich. I didn't know
how much she was going to have. I couldn't tell her."

Emily sat silenced by the very vileness of life. To think of Martha's

money, her great-grandfather's hard-earned money, lying there
accumulating through those years of her sweet childhood, to become
now a factor in this—pollution of her. Pollution, pollution, said Emily to
herself.

Bob demanded, suddenly, "Has she got a lot of money?"

"Only what she squeezes out of dad. She gets a lot. I don't know how
much he gives her. She just bleeds him," she cried, angrily. "Look here,
Mrs. Kenworthy, YOU know dad. You know what a darling he is! I get
so mad at her I could just kill her, the way she treats him. You wouldn't
believe it. Didn't you ever read 'King Lear'? Didn't you read Père Goriot?
You wouldn't think there were such men in the world. But dad's just like
them. He's worse. Look how he lives. He was rich when I was a little
girl; he had a great business exporting flour. My grandfather had had it,
and it went bust after the war. He hadn't a cent. And now look at him
starting all over, knocking around from town to town, buying grain and
elevators, in these filthy hotels. He never has one comfort! He never
spends one cent on himself. He keeps that house—an asylum it is, for
grandma. He keeps me, but I don't spend a lot of money. I'm going to
work the very minute I get out of school. SHE spends it all; she comes
home with a new lie whenever she's hard up. He brought her up to have a
lot of money, he says. He's sorry for her. She hadn't a mother and she
didn't get started right, he says. She divorced her first husband."
 "She did, did she!" Bob cried.

"Yes. Of course, dad took her part in that, too. I don't know the truth
of it; I was a little girl!"

"Eve," said Emily, hesitating, "I wish—you'd tell us what happened—

how this happened before, if you don't mind."

"Oh, I don't mind. It was after the war. We didn't have any home at all.
I was in a boarding school, and my aunt asked me there for the vacation
summer. She wasn't my own aunt; she was the wife of my mother's
brother. Oh, they had the loveliest house, and all just full of fun; and they
were so gentle and so kind—just like you, Mrs. Kenworthy. My cousins
were all grown up, and they were just lovely to me. And then my sister
turned up, for a week or two, with HIM. And of course she couldn't stand
one of the girls even looking at her precious pig. And there was one of
those girls, the one I liked best of all, of course. And she—sort of named
her—just like this, so she wouldn't get into trouble—-didn't mention her
name. And of course dad came and denied it—but what good did that
do? All of them were furious, naturally. It's a little old town of Friends. It
wasn't my fault. I've never been invited back since. People like me when
they don't know my sister. But I can't get away from her any place.
This'll be all over school. It'll get back to that town. I know the girls from
there at college. I tell you honestly—poor dad'll feel just sick about this.
And the next time she turns up with a hard-luck story he'll take it all in
again. He bought them a house—a good one—because she hadn't any
home—in Philadelphia. And she sold it—and went to Paris. He told me
they wouldn't be here this summer, if I came out to him. He's so
sentimental. He just begins talking about mother when I try to get him to
kick them out I'm never going to speak to her again, or stay one night in
the same house with her. You mark my words, he'll have to choose
between having her or me."

"Don't you worry, Eve. Nobody's going to blame you for anything."
Bob spoke kindly because her sincere little tribute to Emily had, of
course, touched him. "I'll see your father about this. What time will he be
here?"

"Oh, you don't need to see him. He'll do it himself. I know he will.
We'll come down and see you about it. Don't say anything to hurt his
feelings, will you, Mr. Kenworthy? Because it isn't his fault. He's a good,
good man. I mean—he'll feel worse about this than anyone"——she
looked at Emily—and added, "almost."

After she had gone, Emily roused herself.

"It doesn't seem as if that could be true, does it, Bob? How would a
woman DARE to do a thing like that? She might get into trouble—sued."

"She didn't use anybody's name. If Martha hadn't—been running

around with that man, this couldn't have hurt her."

"But—why, maybe she doesn't intend to divorce him at all! Eve said
she didn't, didn't she?" And then Emily remembered Martha's exalted
announcement. "Suppose she doesn't divorce him!" she moaned.

"Well, that'd settle it. I think I'll go downtown—as if nothing had

happened. As if I didn't know who was meant. I'll go and see what Mrs.
Benton's doing. I better make sure she isn't—balling it all up."

"Let her alone, Bob. She promised me not to do anything; not

ANYthing. I'm sure she won't. She isn't feeling well enough to do
anything. She's sick, for one thing. She isn't well enough to go
downtown."

"Well, that's one piece of luck!"

"You were hard on her, Bob."

"Well, what did she want to walk in here for? Why can't she mind her
own business?"

"It is her business. As she said Johnnie's her boy."

"I haven't got anything against that kid, Emily. But I'd hate to have her
for my mother-in-law. My God! What would the boy do between those
two—Martha and that woman?"

"You needn't worry about that. Martha'll never marry him now."

"What you going to do with her now, Emily?"

"I don't know."

 "'Tisn't as if she had good sense!"

"Well, maybe she hasn't. But I'll tell you one thing, Bob. We're not
going to have any more melodrama about turning anybody out of this
house. If Martha goes out of it, I go with her. You might as well
understand that. She needs me more than you do. And she's going to
have me, no matter what she does. No matter who she marries. If people
talk about her, they've got to talk about me."

"You don't mean that, Emily. You'd never leave me. You're just talking
wild."

"I'll never leave her! That's sure."

"I guess I got sort of excited, Emily. I know this is your home. I didn't
mean anything—much. I'm going to see Fairbanks. I'll do all I can,
Emily. It's a dirty mess for you, that she's got herself in."

"But the worst of it is—she's in love, Bob!"

"She'll have to get over it; that's all there is to it."

It seemed so simple to Bob. Emily sat still for a minute, thinking

batteredly, after he went. She was thinking that she must be careful. She
would think it all over, all this sickening confusion, before she went up
to talk to Martha. But Martha apparently had been listening for her
father's departure. For no sooner had his car started away than she called
down, eagerly:

"Mammie! Come up here."

And she met her at the top of the stairs, and they went together into
Emily's room, the nearer one. Inside the door Martha came close to her
mother, taking her hand, and saying, gently:

"I'm sorry I was so nasty to Mrs. Benton, mammie. I'll go and tell her
so, if you want me to. You aren't really ashamed of me, are you?
Mammie, now that everything's settled, will you do something for me?
Will you ask him down here? Won't you try to get acquainted with him,
mother? Won't you stop crying about it? You'll just love him, mother!"
 They had sat down together on the bed. Emily was dazed by this
beginning.

"Don't look at me that way; it isn't fair, mammie. I'll even— Look
here! I'll apologize to Johnnie, if you want me to. I suppose he meant
well." And when Emily still said nothing: "Mother, if you make me, I'll
even tell dad I'm sorry. But you heard what he said! You heard him tell
me I HAD to marry Johnnie. You see now what sort of a man he is! But
if you really want me to, of course, I'll—forgive him. I don't want to
make you—miserable. You'd understand, if you knew him—if you'd ask
him to come down here so you could get to know him."

The child WAS crazy! To ask a thing like that! To suppose for a
moment that her mother—— What shall I say to her? Emily wondered.
What's the use of trying to talk to her? The gulf between them seemed to
be widening every minute.

"You don't know what you're saying, child! Why, Martha——!"

"Well, what, mammie?"

"Why, he—is married! He isn't divorced. I don't know that he ever

will be! And you ask me—NOW—to invite him——" Emily was unable
to go on.

"Yes, of course he is married—in a way, mother. But that isn't

anything. If you knew how unhappy he'd been with her, mammie! She
isn't a nice woman. You don't call THAT any marriage, do you? Why, it's
nothing but a legal contract!"

"But, Martha, a legal contract is SOMETHING—if it is only that."

"It's only the law of marriage, mother. There's no heart in it. It isn't
real! It—isn't—mother—when they don't love each other."

"Eve says she does love him! Her heart may be in it."

"Eve!"

"Eve doesn't think she intends to divorce him at all, Martha."

 "She doesn't know anything about it." Martha lifted her head proudly
again.

"Martha, tell me what you know about it. Did he tell you your name
was going to be mentioned?"

"No. He didn't know that. But you needn't worry about that, mother. I
consider it an honor. I don't mind it, if it gets him his freedom—if it
makes him happy."

"He must have known this was liable to happen. Eve says it has
happened before."

"What business is it of Eve's? She's trying to make trouble. What did

she come down here for, anyway now, mother?"

What was the use of talking to this undone child?

"She says her father will stop it. He'll make her apologize."
 "Stop what?"

"The divorce. Having your name in it."

"Mother!" Martha cried out, poignantly. And then she recovered

herself instantly. "It doesn't matter; he'll have his freedom. He can
divorce her, if she won't divorce him. Maybe she won't; it would be just
like her. But, look here, mother, why can't Eve let it alone? What's she
got against him? She has it in for him. She's got to let this alone."

"She was thinking of you—of us all."

"Why doesn't some one think of him? You never think of him. You
never care what happens to him. You're just afraid of people talking!"

"Yes, I'm afraid of it—of people talking—about you."

"But you always understood before. You always said—Oh, I can't

make you understand!" she cried, and was silent.

"Martha, if it was any other man, any unmarried man—you were—

your name was—connected with, I wouldn't mind. If it was even a—
married man—I—could—have any respect for, I wouldn't have cared so
much. Not even if it had been the Legion! But I don't want you to—think
about this man, even. I don't care how much he's divorced and single! If
he was a decent man, he would have come to us about this first—if he
had to speak to anybody about it while he's still—bound to his wife. If he
was a straightforward man, or honest, he would have asked us!"

"Mother, that's bunk! That's not fair. Whoever asks a girl's people first
now? That's Victorian. You didn't even do it yourself, when you were
young. You told me you went to Chicago and married dad when your
aunt didn't even know where you were! Did dad ever ask your aunt first
if he could marry you?"

"That's different."

"Did he, now?"

"No, he didn't. But I knew him; I knew his mother; I knew his family,
and everything."
 "Well, come with me to Chicago and ask him about his family,"
Martha pleaded. "If you think there's anything disgraceful about it, we
could go to some place—some hotel—on the west side—where nobody'd
have to know anything about it."

"Why, Martha Kenworthy!"

"Look here, mammie! I'm not going to quarrel with you! I've
quarreled with everybody else. If you'll just try to be reasonable. I'm not
asking you to promise you'll like him, or anything; I just ask you to get
acquainted with him. I know you'd like him. Just hear his side of it once.
You said you felt sorry for people that were unhappy—with their wives.
You said you thought Mrs. Green ought to get a divorce, mother. That
night Helen was here, when we were sitting on the porch. You said
yourself that such a marriage wasn't anything. Mother, you always said
that. You pitied other people."

"I pity Eve's sister, too."

"Yes, but why don't you pity HIM? Because you don't know him! You
won't even try to get to know him. It isn't fair, mother!"

"How can I think of him? I'm thinking of you!"

"I suppose that's natural." Martha was determined to be conciliatory.

She searched about for some effective argument. "Mammie," she said,
lovingly, "you just look tired out. I just hate to see you worrying this
way. Especially when you don't really need to. Mammie, do you want me
to go now to Mrs. Benton's?"

"No, no! Wait a little; wait till—Mr. Fairbanks gets home."

"What's he got to do with it?"

"Eve says—he'll take your name out of it."

"My name wasn't in the paper."

"Eve said—if she really meant to—go on with it—she could name
some one else—if she needed to."

"That's just like Eve to say that." Martha left the room with dignity.
 And Emily sat on her bed, too stunned to change her position. All her
life her lazy body had turned away from emotional necessities. She had
never been able to get really angry without feeling physically exhausted
afterwards. And now she couldn't think clearly. She was conscious only
of horror—of the pain of fear. Martha wasn't going to be happy. Martha
was going to suffer over this. Martha was running eagerly, irrevocably,
into the arms of tragedy. Surely this couldn't have happened to HER
child—to that good little, sweet, dear child who had always been just
pure joy. She sat there crying out against the truth—she sat there, not
moving—groping about—-praying to Fate.

She sat there till Martha came in again, fresh and beautiful from her
bath. She gave a little cry of protest, catching sight of her mother.

"Don't sit there that way. Don't look that way, mammie. The world
isn't coming to an end because of any old dirty newspaper." She stroked
her mother's head entreatingly. And then she said—the foolish child
—"It's really beginning, if you look at it right." Again her voice quivered
with its ecstasy. She stood trying to coax Emily. "You lie down awhile,
mother. And go and wash your face. Shall I bring you some water? Do
you mind, mammie, if I go and play golf?"

"Yes, I do. Wait, Martha, until Mr. Fairbanks comes back—until it's
settled."

"All right, if you'd rather. Is there anything you want me to do for

supper?"

Supper! What was supper? The details of ordinary life seemed to have
faded into nothing.

"I think everything is—ready," Emily murmured, getting up.

Martha came upstairs after a little while.

"Mr. Fairbanks is downstairs, mammie. He wants to see us all.

Mammie, don't!" She thought better of protesting against her mother's
expression. "Go and wash up; put on something. I'll 'phone dad."

Emily, bestirring herself, heard Martha at the upper 'phone saying to

Bob that her mother wanted to see him a minute. She refrained from
mentioning Mr. Fairbanks' name. Her voice suggested anything but
scandal and tears. She waited in her mother's room, and when Emily
would have gone down she urged her to wait till Bob came. Emily was
too tired to protest, and went down with Martha only when they heard
the car arrive.

She looked at Eve's father with intensified curiosity, since he was the
man who seemed to hold Martha's destiny carelessly in his hand. His
appearance flatly denied his daughter's account of him. Could a red-
faced, hawk-nosed, round-chinned, jovial-looking bald-head be a cursing
Lear or a bleeding Goriot? He was extremely well dressed. His rotundity
suggested pleasure in steaks and chops. His voice belied his appearance
as surprisingly as his daughter had. For when he began to speak—he
remained standing, and he kept stroking the back of his shiny head—-
Emily immediately thought he must be a man of extraordinary reserve,
of powerful self-control. "Martha must respect what he says!" she
thought. "He CAN help us."

"This is a very unpleasant affair, Kenworthy," he began, smoothly. "I

left Eve crying her eyes out. She wanted to come with me, but I wouldn't
have it. I don't know what she's said to you, but it probably wasn't—
correct—altogether. You HAVE been good to her, Mrs. Kenworthy. My
girls—Eve especially—have got to depend too much on friends like you.
I mean—I was worried, I was—uncomfortable because I couldn't
arrange—something for her here, in this town—like what you've meant
to her, but she's so hard to suit. I can't arrange anything for her—I can't
buy or rent her friends. I can't make her like any sensible woman. I can't
tell you how relieved I was to have her take to you so—from the first.
She says now—she says people will see some—reference to you—to
Martha—in this—item in the paper. I don't see that that follows. I don't
see why they should. But of course I went to see the editor at once—just
in case—you were—upset." He looked closely at Emily. He saw she had
been crying. He looked at Martha, more shrewdly, and felt relieved that
she showed no sign of concern. "I must say he was decent about it. Very
reasonable, I found him. Though young Benton said there was some sort
of spite work behind it."

"What's he done about it?" Bob demanded.

"He's denying it in to-morrow's paper. He's saying it was a mistake."

 He could not help realizing how intently the three of them were
waiting his words.

"I ought to explain—I suppose I ought to tell you—how things are

with my married daughter—with Elinor—Mrs. Kenworthy. You'll
understand my situation. She's a very sick woman. She suffers——" the
pain in his voice told too well how she suffered. "She walks the floor for
hours together at night. Eve can't understand it. She's never had a pain in
her life. I know positively that for three days and nights before she went
to Chicago she hadn't an hour's sleep. If you could see—the fight she—
puts up—against—drugs—against things to relieve her, Mrs.
Kenworthy!"

Emily had to murmur, moved by his voice, "Oh, I didn't realize she
was so bad!"

"I told the paper man. I explained it to him—I didn't mention your
name, even, or any women's clubs. I told him she had been—just beside
herself with pain, and if she ever said any such thing, she didn't know
what she was doing. Because, you understand, Mrs. Kenworthy," he
cried, eagerly, "she isn't that sort of woman. She never would have
published such a statement if she had intended doing anything. I told him
that if she ever saw such a thing in his paper, I didn't know what she
might do. It would drive her crazy. I told him he would be responsible—
for a great deal—too much harm, perhaps. He understood at once. He
said he was sorry. He let me word it. I'll show you."

He took a folded sheet of paper out of an inside pocket of his coat,

and handed it to Emily. Bob went to her, bending over her chair, and read
with her:

There is no truth whatever in the rumor that Mrs. Richard Quin

contemplates divorce proceedings. The editor regrets its publication the more
because Mrs. Quin is in very poor health and in no condition to bear the
annoyance caused by such rumors. She and her husband left the first of the
week for Rochester, where she will be under the care of the Mayos for some
weeks.

"I don't know—what more you could have done," Emily murmured.
 "Are you satisfied, Martha?" Mr. Fairbanks was taking the paper from
Emily and handing it to the girl.

"Oh, me?" she asked, innocently, as if he had surprised her by

supposing she was concerned in the matter. Emily, looking quickly
across at her, marked the way her eyes were shining, and murmured,
"Martha!" imploringly.

But Martha paid no heed to her. She tilted her head dangerously and,
looking straight at him, drawled with utter contempt and scorn:

"I suppose you never consider his happiness at all!"

Mr. Fairbanks grew redder. He fairly blinked. He stood looking at her

indignantly for a moment of silence. Emily wondered if he now would
break forth and give Martha a thoroughly good "dressing down."

But when he began speaking, his words were soft and suave.

"Well, I'm more or less responsible for HER happiness, Martha. I'm
not for his. I pay him. He's necessary to her—she's very affectionate,
really. I pay him to contribute to her happiness, just as I pay for my
mother's nurses." He spoke slowly. Obviously he wanted to consider
himself a fair man, always. "And I can't say," he went on, carefully, "that
he always plays the game. Sometimes I think she would be happier
without him. He doesn't—— Sometimes, that is, I wonder if he's worth
——" He hesitated.

So Martha completed his sentence for him.

"What you pay him?" she asked, and the finish of her insolence made
even Emily, harassed as she was, wonder where she had ever learned the
tone. For, looking straight at him, she got up and deliberately started to
leave the room. Mr. Fairbanks, it seemed, was not afraid of girls, for he
put out his arm and took hold of hers, intending to detain her. She broke
away angrily as he spoke her name gently, and, standing in the door into
the hall, he watched her sail defiantly up the stairs.

He turned around; he looked from Emily to Bob. They, watching him

sharply, saw consternation slowly gain control of his face.
 "Oh!" he murmured. "He hasn't—you don't think——"

He could no longer look at Emily. He addressed his mumblings to

Bob. "I didn't realize—— Eve said something, but I didn't—think it
amounted to anything."

"Oh, what can we do now?" Emily moaned.

Then Bob cried, "The damned skunk!"

"Kenworthy! You must be—careful! That's why Elinor's teeth ache!"

His earnestness startled them. "Elinor's teeth are all out, but they all still
ache! It's nerves. They call it hysteria! They can't do anything for her.
Not in Europe, even. It's because she fell in love with that first scoundrel.
He broke her heart, as they say. She lived with him two years, and there
was nothing left of her. They mean he broke her nerve, her temper, her
character—everything! I tell you she was a magnificent girl, Kenworthy!
She had more common sense than any girl I ever saw! She was a partner
to me, more than a daughter. And there's nothing left of her but
toothache! I wouldn't have—anything—happen to Martha!"

He was so distressed that Emily heard herself saying: "Oh, she'll be

all right. Martha's all right. Don't worry."

"But they take it so hard. They fall so in earnest. Look here, Mrs.
Kenworthy, you don't want him around—in town, do you? You want him
to clear out?"

"Oh yes!"

"Very well, then. He won't come back. I won't let him set foot in this
town again. There are some limits to what I'll stand from him."

"Are you going to see him? Where is he now?" Bob asked.

"I think he's with Elinor. You never can know, exactly. But I'll see
him."

"Tell him for me that if he doesn't let Martha alone, I'll kill him—
married or divorced."
 "I'll tell him something worse than that! You needn't worry." He spoke
grimly. A smile that was surprisingly evil came over his round face. "I'd
like to tell you what I did to the first man. It would comfort you. But it's
a secret."

Emily shivered. She didn't like Eve's "sweet old lamb." He was a
wolf, perhaps, at heart, and she was afraid of his cruelty. "He'll make that
man afraid, too, if he looks at him like that!" she thought.

He left abruptly, and Emily went upstairs to Martha. What she saw in
the painted room terrified her. She had to realize that the fire in Martha's
heart burned passionately enough to make everything its fuel. For when
she shut the door behind her, Martha raised herself up angrily from the
day bed crying furiously:

"Mother! I hope you're satisfied now! I don't know how you could sit
there with that vile man! Did you ever hear anything so—vile—vile!"
She sobbed. "He talks as if Richard was a dog to amuse that dirty
woman! You'd think he was a slave! Nobody takes his part! Nobody
cares for him! And YOU aren't sorry for him, even! Oh, it makes me so
mad!"

After a little Emily said, "I felt sorry for HER, Martha!"

"Yes, you would! You know what a liar she is. Even Eve said she was
a liar. Even Eve said she pretended to be sick so she could get money out
of her father! Why do you believe them? Oh!" cried Martha, "he's a vile
man! Vile! When I think of Richard having to live with those people
——" When her sobs let her speak, she went on, "Mother, can't you see
what a position he is in?"

"It doesn't seem a position that does any man any credit, Martha."

"All right!" cried Martha. "All right, let it go at that. I'll never speak to
you about him again, never." She never did.

It was well that there was a painted room in the house, those four
weeks before she went back to college. There was nothing else bright
about it. Bob waited to intercept letters from "that skunk" who, Mr.
Fairbanks said, was to be for some time in Rochester with his wife; but
no letters seemed to come. Martha appeared not to be humiliated by the
fact that she had practically declared her love for a man hopelessly,
permanently married. In her secluded room she bided her time, a smile
on her lips, the sweetest dream in her eyes. She was ignoring her mother
not only purposefully, but unconsciously. She had greater things than a
mother's anxiety to think about.

Her coldness sickened Emily every minute of the day. She scarcely
knew how to get through the hours, so burdened were they with yearning
over the silly girl. Never had the garden bloomed so hilariously before in
August and September. Never had it had such care before. Emily watered
her dahlias sometimes till midnight, dreading a sleepless bed when she
went into the house. She rose up early and watered them under stars she
had seldom seen setting. Once out there, hoping, praying, she had looked
up and in the very early dawn seen Martha sitting dreaming at her
window. And the sight of that distant, alienated child took all the color
from the dawn and heaven.

Life indeed had assumed the color of dread and heart-sickness.

Johnnie had waited a few days, and then departed. Emily was glad she
had seized an occasion to say to him secretly, hurriedly, "Johnnie, I'm
very fond of you!" He had given her a surprised and precious look. But
he had not even said he was leaving. His mother said he had gone down
to have some coaching in philosophy—it was his last year in college.
Eve never came to the house. Emily met her occasionally on the street, in
the stores. And once she said, passionately: "Oh, I hate to run into you
this way! I'm ashamed to look you in the face!" And in her own house
the atmosphere was either very cold, when she and Martha were
together, or very sultry, when Bob was with them, so that she lived in
terror of some further deadly burst of thunder.

Martha announced one day that she was going to Chicago for
shopping. She would naturally do that several times, getting her clothes
ready for the school year.

Emily said to her: "Before you go, Martha, you must promise me one
thing. You must promise me you will NOT see—at all—that man."

"You don't trust me any more?"

"No, Martha. It's your judgment. I don't trust your judgment."

 "No, I suppose not. I see."

"Will you promise me that, Martha?"

"No, I don't think so. I don't think I will."

"What am I to do now?" thought Emily. "Shall I say that she can't

leave this house till she promises me that?"

Martha was looking at her hostilely, steadily. "I'll tell you what I'll do.
I'll think it over. I'll tell you to-morrow what I'll do," she said.

On the morrow, she said, "Mother, if it will do you any good, I'll
promise—what you want me to."

"Oh, Martha!" Emily cried to her, "you must promise me that,

absolutely! Martha, I just couldn't let you go away to school again,
unless you promise me that!"

"All right, I promise you. If you can't trust my—judgment, as you

say"—she spoke sarcastically—"I suppose you can—believe—what I
say."

Bob's eyes dwelt resentfully upon his daughter, and loyally on his
distressed wife, all those painful last days before Martha left for the East.

"I'll bet you lost twenty pounds this summer, Emily!" he said,
ruefully, when they were alone at length.

"Well, thank goodness for that!" she retorted, loyal to the child. "I
wish I'd lost twenty more." She knew he would count grudgingly all the
ounces she suffered. Yet it was no great thing to him if Martha had lost
her very heart.

Chapter Six
 They gathered their green tomatoes, to save them from the frost.
Emily and Maggie, in the delicious kitchen, made chilli sauces and the
good kind of vegetarian mincemeat. The house was filled with the
excellent odors of the ends of the earth. Java and Jamaica were stirred
into Illinois, and sealed away in sturdy bottles which took their places
chronologically in the cupboard next to the wild grape and the crab-apple
jelly below the spiced peaches. The bottles had to be pushed close
against one another, now, to make room for them in the crowded shelves.

But when Emily looked into the cupboard of her heart, it was bare.

She had dug the gladiolas; she had cut the last of the lavender statice,
which she had sown in happier days to make glamour in the painted
room, and hung it head downward to dry with the rosy strawflowers. The
frosts came and turned the hard maples gaudy. The old Fiske place
seemed always to lose its head completely in the fall. There grew a
barberry hedge along the front walk, which Emily's father had planted
when he took down the white picket fence. He had simply put those little
dry-looking shoots into the ground one rainy spring morning years ago,
never imagining what riot he was planting. For years now, on every
brilliant Sunday afternoon, while the leaves were falling, townspeople
had walked out to see that hedge, to hear its rejoicings. The knowing had
taken cuttings of it, to their disappointment, for even that offspring hedge
just across the road had never been able to achieve quite such giddiness.
Some people said it was the soil that did it. Others maintained it was the
way in which the water soaked down to the river just there. Such cherries
of ripeness, such roses and purple grapes and bleeding pomegranates of
hues, such plums and persimmons and exotic luminous loquats glowing
together, such oranges and oracles of color, no other hedge could
summon. People got joy out of it according to their moods and natures.
But Emily, for once, could take no pleasure in it.

"Last year," she would say to herself, resentfully, "I enjoyed just
sitting at this window mending socks. Anything made me happy last
year." But now, when she sat down with her sewing, she wasn't seeing
what was before her—the hedge, or anything else. The fingers of one
hand would be intertwined tensely with the fingers of the other, and she
would be sitting as it were, screwed up tight against herself, seeing that
face bending down over Martha, that hateful, alienating face. She was
seeing Martha in a gingham frock standing at that table, saying in a voice
like the angel of some heavenly annunciation, "Richard Quin is getting a
divorce." "I'm a fool!" she would say angrily to herself over and over,
resolving not to worry. When one day some child with bitter-sweet had
reminded her of a promise to Martha made early in June, she had got
Bob to drive her out to where the vine grew heavily on a barbed wire
fence. She and Martha had been chattering just there in July, as they
drove along, and Martha had made her promise to gather some of it for
the painted room. And that afternoon, after she had arranged it in the red
copper bowls, she had lain down on a day bed and just cried and cried
like a silly girl, so that, in spite of her precautions, Bob had eyed her at
supper and laid another charge against Martha in his memory.

Martha would not come home for Thanksgiving. Emily had never
suggested it to her before. They had agreed that it wasn't worth while
coming so far for so few days. But this year Emily had hoped that some
way, if she came, they might come to some understanding. But Martha
refused to come. Her letters arrived as regularly as ever, as if she had
determined that in this disagreement she was to be found in the wrong
not at all. She was going to do her duty to her mother, however
unsatisfactory that mother might be. She wrote regularly, therefore, such
noncommittal and indifferent letters as she might have written to her
father had necessity arisen. And Emily counted the weeks wearily till she
would have the child with her again. Surely the separation, if nothing
else, would bring her to her senses; and she tried not to worry. Martha
had given her her word of honor that she would not see the man again.
She had always been a truthful child; there was no gainsaying that.

Then one day, shortly before the Christmas holiday, Emily got a most
disturbing letter from Eve. She wrote loyally in a very storm of
perplexity. She had promised Martha faithfully that she would not write
this to her mother, she began. And the more she thought about it, the
more certain she was that she must write it. Martha scarcely spoke to her
—she never did if she could manage not to without being noticed.
Martha had said two days ago to her that she was not going home for
Christmas. And everybody was saying how bad Martha looked. She was
sick; she had no color; and all the girls said she was changed. And Eve
had to cry about it, because she believed it was that horrid affair of last
summer. Martha had never been the same since. And if she wasn't going
home for Christmas, certainly some one ought to tell her mother how bad
she looked. Eve begged Emily never to tell Martha she had written—to
deny it up and down, if Martha guessed. But she was just sick about
Martha. "After all, I'm older than she is, and I have more sense," Eve
wrote. "And I can't help feeling that it's our fault. I would wish with all
my heart we had never gone to Illinois—only then I wouldn't have
known you."

And the next day Martha's letter had come, announcing her intention
of spending the vacation in New York. Just New York, if you please, no
address given, no intimation of her company. "You know what will
happen if I come home," she wrote. "I'll just quarrel with father and
you'll be miserable. It's better for me to stay away."

Martha had left this announcement, naturally, to the very last minute.
But Eve's letter had prepared Emily. She telegraphed at once, knowing
she had likely just time to reach Martha before she left college, that she
was to meet her in a certain hotel in New York the next afternoon. She
said nothing to Bob about Eve's letter. Eve's anxiety and Martha's
impertinence between them had upset her completely. Did Martha
imagine she was going to be allowed to announce her departure for
unknown places and companies in this high-handed manner? What was
the child thinking of? Was it possible—that she might not get the
telegram? Was it possible that if she did, she wouldn't obey?

Emily had chosen that hotel hastily. She usually stayed with cousins
in New York. But at Christmas time they might be having a house full.
Besides, she couldn't endure the thought that Martha might be indifferent
to her before them.

So she moved about the room she had taken in the hotel. She arranged
the things she had unpacked, and rearranged them. She looked at the
time, and she looked out of the window to the crowded street very far
below. Martha was already a little bit late. Suppose she never came at
all! Suppose she hadn't come by dinner time, by bed time! Emily couldn't
sit still.

And then she heard some one; she opened the door; Martha was there,
in her racoon coat, in a rosy little hat of many colors, pulled down over a
sallow face; Martha was in her arms, and crying; in a second Martha,
coat and all, was lying on the bed, her face in her mother's lap, repenting
with bitter tears.
 "Oh, I've been so horrid to you, mammie! I've been so horrid to you!
I'm so sorry!" She was hugging her, clinging to her, imploring her
pardon.

So Emily cried, too, for surprise and relief, and comforted her, and
urged her to stop crying. This was better than anything she had dared to
hope for. But she had known all the time Martha would come to herself.
The child hadn't meant anything, really. She had always been such a
good girl. Emily in a second could have forgotten every minute that had
not been satisfactory. This was well worth having come to New York for.

Martha wasn't succeeding in regaining her composure. Emily

attempted to take her coat off, but thought it better not to bother her. She
just lay and cried. And she had never been a crying child. Emily had seen
to that. All these tears, all this passion of repentance, showed what a
loving little heart she had. "How I have wronged the child!" Emily
mused, wiping her eyes. "I thought she might not come at all!" And she
caressed her, and waited patiently. "Don't cry any more now, Martha,"
she said. "We'll forget all about it."

"Oh, I wish I'd been a good girl!" And having said that, she wept on.

She cried too long.

Emily said, presently: "Your feet are making a mark on the bedspread.
Get up. Take off your coat."

"I'm cold, mammie." She sat up, fumbled about, and kicked off her
low shoes, and lay down again, trying to cuddle her feet up under her
coat.

"Cold?" The room had been so hot a moment ago that Emily had the
windows both opened. She got up and went and shut them.

"Where's your baggage?" she asked in a matter-of-fact way, to stop

the tears.

"I had it taken to my room."

"Your room?"