Rose MacLeod

								

makes you indifferent to him. There are a million things I should like
to know about Markham MacLeod,--what he eats and wears, almost. Couldn't
you tell me what induced him--what sudden, vital thing, I mean--to stop
his essay-writing and found the Brotherhood?"
Rose answered coldly, and as if from irresistible impulse,--
"My father's books never paid."
Electra gazed at her, with wide-eyed reproach.
"You don't give that as a reason!"
Rose had recovered herself and remembered again the things she meant to
leave untouched.
"No," she said, "I don't give it as a reason. I only give it."
Electra was looking at her, rebuffed and puzzled; then a ray shot
through her fog.
"Ah," she said, "wouldn't it be one of the inconceivable things if we
who have followed his work and studied him at a distance knew him better
than you who have had the privilege of knowing him at first hand?"
In spite of herself, Rose answered dryly,--
"It would be strange."
But Electra had not heard. There was the sound of wheels on the drive,
and she looked out, to see Madam Fulton alighting.
"Excuse me, one moment," she said. "My grandmother has come home from
town."
When Rose was alone in the room, she put her hand to her throat to
soothe its aching. There were tears in her eyes. She seemed to have
attempted an impossible task. But presently Electra was entering again,
half supporting by the arm a fragile-looking old lady who walked
inflexibly, as if she resented that aid. Madam Fulton was always
scrupulous in the appointments of her person; but this morning, with the
slightly fagged look about her eyes and her careful bonnet a trifle
awry, she disclosed the fact that she had dressed in haste for a train.
But she seemed very much alive, with the alert responsiveness of those
to whom interesting things have happened.
"I want my grandmother to be as surprised as I am," Electra was saying,
with her air of social ease. "Grandmother, who do you think this is? The
daughter of Markham MacLeod!" She announced it as if it were great news
from a quarter unexplored and wonderful. Rose was on her feet, her
pathetic eyes fixed upon the old lady's face. Madam Fulton was regarding
her with a frank interest it consoled her to see. It was not, at least,
so disproportioned.
"Dear me!" said the old lady. "Well, your father is a remarkable man.
Electra here has all his theories by heart."
"I wish I had," breathed Electra with a fervency calculated perhaps to
distract the talk from other issues.
"How long have you been in America?" asked the old lady civilly, though
not sitting down. She had to realize that she was tired, that it would
be the part of prudence to escape to her own room.
"I have just come," said Rose, in a low, eloquent voice, its tones
vibrating with her sense of the unfriendliness that had awaited her.
"And where are you staying? How did you drift down here?"
"At Mrs. Grant's--for the present." What might have been indignation