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A year later, or so it seemed to John Sedyard, the taxicab, panting with indignation at the insults and interferences to which it had been subjected, turned into Sedyard’s eminently respectable block and drew up before his eminently handsome house.

He paid and propitiated the chauffeur, took his lovely burden in his arms and staggered up the steps with the half regretful feeling of one who steps out of the country of adventure back to prosaic things. He found his latchkey, opened his door and drew Maudie into the hall. And on the landing half-way up the stairs stood his sister Edith, evidently the bearer of some pleasant tidings.

Maudie’s smile flashed up at her from John’s shoulder. Edith stared, stiffened, and retraced her steps. John wheeled the figure into the reception-room and thus addressed it:

“Listen to me, you dumbhead. You may think this adventure is over. Well, so did I, but I tell you now it’s only just beginning. If you are not mighty careful you will be wrecking a home. So keep your mouth shut,” he charged her, “and do nothing till you hear from me!”

Maudie smiled archly, coyly, confidentially, and he went upstairs.

In the sitting-room, he found gathered together his mother, his sister and Dick Van Plank, Mary’s young brother and a student at Columbia. John was supported through Edith’s first remark and the look with which she accompanied it by the memory of her goodness to Mary and by the anticipation of the fun which Maudie might be made to provide.

“I wish to say, John,” she began, before any one else had time to speak, “that I’ve said nothing to mother or Dick, and I think it would be better if you didn’t. I can attend to the case if you leave it to me.”

“Like you,” said John shortly. “Who told you she is a ‘case.’ Mother,” he went on addressing that gentle knitter by the fire, “I want you to come downstairs.”

“She shall do nothing of the kind!” cried Edith, and as Mrs. Sedyard looked interrogatively from one to another of her children, her daughter swept on. “John must be crazy, I saw him come in with a–a person–who never ought to be in a house like this.”

“I’d like to know why not?” stormed John. “You don’t know a thing about her. I don’t know much for that matter, but when I came across her down on Union Square, just turned out of a shop where she had been working, mother, I made up my mind that I would bring her right straight home, and that Edith would be decent to her. You can see that Edith does not intend to be.”

“But my dear boy,” faltered Mrs. Sedyard, “was not that a very reckless thing to do? I know of an institution where you could send her.”

“Oh! yes, yes,” said John. “And I suppose I might have handed her over to a policeman,” he added, thinking of his attempt in this direction, “but I didn’t. The sight of her so gentle and uncomplaining in that awful situation at this time of general rejoicing was too much for me.”

He felt this to be so fine a flight and its effect upon Dick was so remarkable, that he went on in a voice, as his mother always remembered, “that positively trembled at times.”

“How was I, a man strong and well-dowered, to pass heartlessly by like the Good Samaritan–“

“There’s something wrong with that,” Dick interposed.

But John was not to be deflected. “What, mother, would you have thought of your son if he left that beautiful figure–for she is beautiful–“

“You don’t say,” said Dick.

“To be buffeted by the waves of ‘dead man’s curve?'”

“Oh, how awful!” murmured the old lady. “How perfectly dreadful.”

It was at this point that Dick Van Plank unostentatiously left the room.

“But I didn’t do it, mother,” cried John, thumping his chest and anxious to make his full effect before the return of an enlightened and possibly enlightening Dick. “No, I thought of this big house, with only us three in it, and I said ‘I’ll bring her home.’ Edith will love her. Edith will give her friendship, advice, guidance. She will even give her something to wear instead of the unsuitable things she has on. And what do I find?” He paused and looked around dramatically and warningly as Dick, with a beautified grin, returned. “Does Edith open her heart to her? No. Does Edith open her arms to her? No. All that Edith opens to her is the door which leads–who can tell where, whither?”