The Opened Shutters. Clara Louise Burnham

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СКАЧАТЬ judge hooked his thumbs in his armholes, regarding Dunham quizzically. "How about Jacob Johnson, Esquire, alias Thinkright. Do you suppose if I sent to him to shake the hayseed out of his hair and come on here you might unburden yourself to him somewhat?"

      "Look here, Judge Trent," said Dunham, with exasperation, "perhaps you think I've had a pleasant day."

      The lawyer approached the speaker and patted his big arm. "Could you, John, could you, do you think?"

      "Yes, confound you!"

      "Then we're fixed, Martha," said Judge Trent calmly. "You're all right, Dunham. You didn't overrate yourself at all."

      "But I don't understand," exclaimed Martha tremulously, looking from one to the other.

      Judge Trent opened the door for her ceremoniously.

      "The intricate workings of the law, Martha, are difficult of explanation; but, after all, what do you care if the net result proves to be the arrival of your niece at the Mill Farm in a few days."

      "Of your niece, Calvin," returned Miss Lacey, moving to the door, followed by Dunham, whose brow was lowering. "Don't think of coming with me, Mr. Dunham," she added, turning to him. "It is still fully light—and," ingratiatingly, "did you say you were going to telegraph Sylvia?"

      "Yes."

      "What shall he say, Calvin?"

      "I should trust his judgment before my own," returned the lawyer. "Here's your eight dollars, Boy, and you're a trump."

      John took the money without smiling; but he was glad to know about the farm.

      Miss Martha boarded her car with a heart that was questioning but beginning to hope, and her mind was busy piecing together the evidence.

      Mr. Dunham had left her for hours. He had been unable to return Judge Trent's money. He knew where Sylvia was.

      Her misery gradually abated, and before she reached her gate she began to wonder if her bonnet had been on straight during the recent interview.

      CHAPTER VI

      SYLVIA'S CALLER

      When Dunham's telegram reached Sylvia Lacey she was for the time being powerless to disobey it. The excitement and disappointment of the interview with her aunt had resulted in a feverish attack which, though slight, destroyed her ambition to do more than lie on her narrow bed and meditate upon the situation.

      She could not write to the friends at home who had pictured such a pleasant future for her with her Boston relatives. She was not able even to go out and buy a "Dramatic Mirror" to discover where Nat's company would be playing the coming week.

      She lay white and slender in her black wrapper, and listlessly fingered the telegram, which was now two days old. It read:—

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