The Measure of Margaret Coppered

by Kathleen Norris

Duncan Coppered felt that his father's second marriage was a greatmistake. He never said so; that would not have been Duncan's way.But he had a little manner of discreetly compressing his lips, when,the second Mrs. Coppered was mentioned, eying his irreproachableboots, and raising his handsome brows, that was felt to besignificant. People who knew and admired Duncan--and to know him wasto admire him--realized that he would never give more definiteindications of filial disapproval than these. His exquisite sense ofwhat was due his father's wife from him would not permit it. But allthe more did the silent sympathy of his friends go out to him.To Harriet Culver he said the one thing that these friends,comparing notes, considered indicative of his real feeling. Harriet,who met him on the Common one cold afternoon, reproached him, duringthe course of a slow ride, for his non-appearance at various dinnersand teas."Well, I've been rather bowled over, don't you know? I've beengetting my bearings," said Duncan, simply."Of course you have!" said Harriet, with an expectant thrill."I'd gotten to count on monopolizing the governor," pursued Duncan,presently, with a rueful smile. "I shall feel no end in the way fora while, I'm afraid, Of course, I didn't think Dad would alwayskeep"-his serious eyes met Harriet's--"always keep my mother's placeempty; but this came rather suddenly, just the same.""Had your father written you?" said Harriet, confused between fearof saying the wrong thing and dread of a long silence."Oh, yes!" Duncan attempted an indifferent tone. "He had written mein August about meeting Miss Charteris and her little brother inRome, you know, and how much he liked her. Her brother was aninvalid, and died shortly after; and then Dad met her again inParis, quite alone, and they were married immediately."He fell silent. Presently Harriet said daringly: "She's--clever;she's gifted, isn't she?""I think you were very bold to say that, dear!" said Mrs. VanWinkle, when Harriet repeated this conversation, some hours later,in the family circle."Oh, Aunt Minnie, I had to--to see what he'd say.""And what did he say?" asked Harriet's mother,"He looked at me gravely, you know, until I was ashamed of myself,"the girl confessed, "and then he said: 'Why, Hat, you must know thatMrs. Coppered was a professional actress?'""And a very obscure little actress, at that," finished Mrs. Culver,nodding."Pacific Coast stock companies or something like that," saidHarriet. "Well, and then, after a minute, he said, so sadly, 'That'swhat hurts, although I hate myself for letting it make adifference.'""Duncan said that?" Mrs. Van Winkle was incredulous."Poor boy! With one aunt Mrs. Vincent-Hunter and the other anEnglish duchess! The Coppereds have always been among Boston's bestfamilies. It's terrible," said Mrs. Culver."Well, I think it is," the girl agreed warmly. "Judge Clyde Potter'sgrandson, and brought up with the very nicest people, and sensitiveas he is--I think it's just too bad it should be Duncan!""There's no doubt she was an actress, I suppose, Emily?""Well," said Harriet's mother, "it's not denied." She shruggedeloquently."Shall you call, mother?""Oh, I shall have to once, I suppose. The Coppereds, you know. Everyone will call on her for Carey's sake," said Mrs. Culver, sighing.Every one duly called on Mrs. Carey Coppered, when she returned toBoston; and although she made her mourning an excuse for decliningall formal engagements, she sent out cards for an "at home" on aFriday in January. She was a thin, graceful woman, with the blue-black Irish eyes that are set in with a sooty finger, and anunexpectedly rich, deep voice. Her quiet, almost diffident mannerwas obviously accentuated just now by her recent sorrow; but thisdid not conceal from her husband's friends the fact that the secondMrs. Coppered was not of their world. Everything charming she mightbe, but to the manner born she was not. They would not meet her onher own ground, she could not meet them on theirs. In her own homeshe listened like a puzzled, silenced child to the gay chatter thatwent on about her.Duncan stood with his father, at his stepmother's side, on herafternoon at home, prompting her when names or faces confused her,treating her with a little air of gracious intimacy eminentlybecoming and charming under the circumstances. His tact stoodbetween her and more than one blunder, and it was to be noticed thatshe relied upon him even more than upon his father. Carey Coppered,indeed, hitherto staid and serious, was quite transformed by his joyand pride in her, and would not have seen a thousand blunders on herpart. The consensus of opinion, among his friends, was that Careywas "really a little absurd, don't you know?" and that Mrs. Careywas "quite deliciously odd," and that Duncan was "too wonderful--poor, dear boy!"Mrs. Coppered would have agreed that her stepson was wonderful, butwith quite a literal meaning. She found him a real cause for wonder--this poised, handsome, crippled boy of nineteen, with his tailor,and his tutor, and his groom, and the heavy social responsibilitiesthat bored him so heartily. With the honesty of a naturallybrilliant mind cultivated by hard experience, and much solitaryreading, she was quite ready to admit that her marriage had placedher in a new and confusing environment; she wanted only to adaptherself, to learn the strange laws by which it was controlled. Andshe would naturally have turned quite simply to Duncan for help.But Duncan very gently, very coldly, repelled her. He wasrepresentative of his generation. Things were not learned by thebest people; they were instinctively known. The girls that Duncanknew--the very children in their nurseries--never hesitated over thewording of a note of thanks, never innocently omitted the tipping ofa servant, never asked their maid's advice as to suitable frocks andgloves for certain occasions. All these things, and a thousand more,his stepmother did, to his cold embarrassment and annoyance.The result was unfortunate in two ways. Mrs. Coppered shrank underthe unexpressed disapproval into more than her native timidity,rightly thinking his attitude represented that of all her new world;and Carey, who worshipped his young wife, perceived at last thatDuncan was not championing his stepmother, and for the first time inhis life showed a genuine displeasure with his son.This was exquisitely painful to Margaret Coppered. She knew whatfather and son had been to each other before her coming; she knew,far better than Carey, that the boy's adoration of his father wasthe one vital passion of his life. Mrs. Ayers, the housekeeper,sometimes made her heartsick with innocent revelations."From the day his mother died, Mrs. Coppered, my dear, when poorlittle Master Duncan wasn't but three weeks old, I don't believe heand his father were separated an hour when they could be together!Mr. Coppered would take that little owl-faced baby downstairs withhim when he came in before dinner, and 'way into the night they'd bein the library together, the baby laughing and crowing, or asleep ona pillow on the sofa. Why, the boy wasn't four when he let the nursego, and carried the child off for a month's fishing in Canada! Andwhen we first knew that the hip was bad, Mr. Coppered gave up hisbusiness and for five years in Europe he never let Master Duncan outof his sight. The games and the books--I should say the child had amillion lead soldiers! The first thing in the morning it'd be, 'IsDad awake, Paul?' and he running into the room; and at noon, comingback from his ride, 'Is Dad home?' Wonderful to him his father'salways been.""That's why I'm afraid he'll never like me," Margaret was quitesimple enough to say wistfully, in response. "He never laughs out orchatters, as Mr. Coppered says he used to do."And after such a conversation she would be especially considerate ofDuncan--find some excuse for going upstairs when she heard the clickof his crutch in the hall, so that he might find his father alone inthe library, or excuse herself from a theatre trip so that theymight be together."Oh, I'm so glad the Poindexters want us!" she said one night, overher letters."Why?" said Carey, amused by her ardor. "We can't go.""I know it. But they're such nice people, Carey. Duncan will be sopleased to have them want me!"Her husband laughed out suddenly, but a frown followed the laugh."You're very patient with the boy, Margaret. I--well, I've not beenvery patient lately, I'm afraid. He manages to exasperate me so,with these grandiose airs, that he doesn't seem the same boy atall!"Mrs. Coppered came over to take the arm of his chair and put herwhite fingers on the little furrow between his eyes."It breaks my heart when you hurt him, Carey! He broods over it so.And, after all, he's only doing what they all--all the people heknows would do!""I thought better things of him," said his father."If you go to Yucatan in February, Carey," Margaret said, "he andI'll be here alone, and then we'll get on much smoother, you'llsee.""I don't know," he said. "I hate to go this year; I hate to leaveyou."But he went, nevertheless, for the annual visit to his rubberplantation; and Margaret and Duncan were left alone in the big housefor six weeks. Duncan took especial pains to be considerate of hisstepmother in his father's absence, and showed her that he felt hercomfort to be his first care. He came and went like a polite,unresponsive shadow, spending silent evenings with her in thelibrary, or acting as an irreproachable and unapproachable escortwhen escort was needed. Margaret, watching him, began to despair ofever gaining his friendship.Late one wintry afternoon the boy came in from a concert, and waspassing the open door of his step-mother's room when she called him.He found her standing by one of the big windows, a very girlishfigure in her trim walking-suit and long furs. The face she turnedto him, under her wide hat, was rosy from contact with the nippingspring air."Duncan," she said, "I've had such a nice invitation from Mrs.Gregory."Duncan's face brightened."Mrs. Jim?" said he."No, indeed!" exulted Margaret, gayly. "Mrs. Clement.""Oh, I say!" said Duncan, smiling too. For if young Mrs. JimGregory's friendship was good, old Mrs. Clement's was much better.For the first time, he sat down informally in Margaret's room andlaid aside his crutch."She's going to take General and Mrs. Wetherbee up to Snowhill forthree or four days," pursued Margaret, "and the Jim Gregorys and Mr.Fred Gregory and me. Won't your father be pleased? Now, Duncan, whatclothes do I need?""Oh, the best you've got," said Duncan, instantly interested; and,until it was time to dress for dinner, the two were deep in absorbedconsultation.Duncan was whistling as he went upstairs to dress, and hisstepmother was apparently in high spirits. But twenty minutes later,when he found her in the library, there was a complete change. Hereyes were worried, her whole manner distressed, and her voice sharp.She looked up from a telegram as he came in."I've just had a wire from an old friend in New York," said she,"and I want you to telephone the answer for me, will you, Duncan?I've not a moment to spare. I shall have to leave for New York atthe earliest possible minute. After you've telephoned the wire, willyou find out about the trains from South Station? And get my ticketand reservation, will you? Or send Paul for them--whatever'squickest."Duncan hardly recognized her. Her hesitation was gone, herdiffidence gone. She did not even look at him as she spoke; hisscowl passed entirely unnoticed. He stood coldly disapproving."I don't really see how you can go," he began. "Mrs. Gregory--""Yes, I know!" she agreed hastily. "I telephoned. She hadn't come inyet, so I had to make it a message--simply that Mrs. Copperedcouldn't manage it tomorrow. She'll be very angry, of course.Duncan, would it save any time to have Paul take this right to thetelegraph station--""Surely," Duncan interrupted in turn, "you're not going to rush off--""Oh, surely--surely--surely--I am!" she answered, fretted by histone. "Don't tease me, dear boy! I've quite enough to worry over! I--I"--she pushed her hair childishly off her face--"I wish devoutlythat your father was here. He always knows in a second what's to bedone! But--but fly with this telegram, won't you?" she broke offsuddenly.Duncan went. The performance of his errand was not reassuring. Thetelegram was directed to Philip Penrose, at the Colonial Theatre,and read:Will be with you this evening. Depend on me. Heartsick at news.Margaret.When he went upstairs again, he rapped at his stepmother's door.Hatted, and with a fur coat over her arm, she opened it."Are you taking Fanny?" said Duncan, icily. Fanny, the maid, middle-aged, loyal, could be trusted with the honor of the Coppereds."Heavens, no!" said Mrs. Coppered, vigorously."Then I hope you will not object to my escort," said the boy,flushing.If he meant it for reproach, it missed its mark. Mrs. Coppered'ssurprised look became doubtful, finally changed to relief."Why, that's very sweet of you, Duncan," she said graciously,"especially as I can't tell you what I'm going for, my dear, for itmay not occur. But I think, of all people in the world, you're theone to go with me!"Duncan eyed her severely."At the same time," he said, "I can't for one moment pretend--""Exactly; so that it's all the nicer of you to volunteer to comealong!" she said briskly. "You'll have to hurry, Duncan. And askPaul to come up for my trunk, will you? We leave the house in halfan hour!"Mrs. Coppered advised her stepson to supply himself with magazineson the train."For I shall have to read," she said, "and perhaps you won't be ableto sleep."And read she did, with hardly a look or a word for him. She turnedand re-turned the pages of a little paper-covered book, moving herlips and knitting her brows over it as she read.Duncan, miserably apprehensive that they would meet someacquaintance and have to give an explanation of their mad journey,satisfied himself that there was no such immediate danger, and,assuming a forbidding expression, sat erect in his seat. But hefinally fell into an uneasy sleep, not rousing himself until thetrain drew into the Forty-second Street station late in the evening.His stepmother had made a rough pillow of his overcoat and put itbetween his shoulder and the window-frame; but he did not commentupon it as he slipped it on and followed her through the roaring,chilly station to a taxicab."The Colonial Theatre, as fast as you can!" said she, as they jumpedin. She was obviously nervous, biting her lips and humming under herbreath as she watched the brilliantly lighted streets they threadedso slowly. Almost before it stopped she was out of the cab, at theentrance of a Broadway theatre. Duncan, alert and suspicious, readthe name "Colonial" in flaming letters, and learned from a largersign that Miss Eleanor Forsythe and an all-star cast were appearingtherein in a revival of Reade's "Masks and Faces."In the foyer Mrs. Coppered asked authoritatively for the manager. Itwas after ten o'clock, the curtain had risen on the last act, and ageneral opinion prevailed that Mr. Wyatt had gone home. But Mrs.Coppered's distinguished air, her magnificent furs, her beauty, allhad their effect, and presently Duncan followed her into the hot,untidy little office where the manager was to be found.He was a pleasant, weary-looking man, who wheeled about from hisdesk as they came in, and signed the page to place chairs."Mr. Wyatt," said Mrs. Coppered, with her pleasantest smile, "canyou give us five minutes?""I can give you as many as you like, madam," said the manager,patiently, but with a most unpromising air."Only five!" she reassured him, as they sat down. Then, with anabsolutely businesslike air, she continued: "Mr. Wyatt, you have Mr.and Mrs. Penrose in your company, I think, both very old friends ofmine. She's playing Mabel Vane,--Mary Archer is the name she uses,--and he's Triplet. Isn't that so?"The manager nodded, eying her curiously."Mr. Wyatt, you've heard of their trouble, of course? The accidentthis morning to their little boy?""Ah, yes--yes," said Wyatt. "Of course. Hurt by a fall, poor littlefellow. Very serious. Yes, poor things! Did you want to see--""You know that one of your big surgeons here--I've forgotten thename!--is to operate on little Phil tomorrow?" asked Mrs. Coppered."So Penrose said," assented the manager, slowly, watching her as ifa little surprised at her insistence."Mr. Wyatt." said Mrs. Coppered,--and Duncan noticed that she hadturned a little pale,--"Mrs. Penrose wired me news of all this onlya few hours ago. She is half frantic at the idea that she must go ontomorrow afternoon and evening; yet the understudy is ill, and shefelt it was too short notice to ask you to make a change now. But itoccurred to me to come to see you about it. I want to ask you afavor. I want you to let me play Mrs. Penrose's part tomorrowafternoon and tomorrow night. I've played Mabel Vane a hundredtimes; it's a part I know very well," she went on quickly. "I--I amnot in the least afraid that I can't take it. And then she can bewith the little boy through the operation and afterward--he's onlyfive, you know, at the unreasonable age when all children want theirmothers! Can't that be arranged, Mr. Wyatt?"Duncan, holding a horrified breath, fixed his eyes, as he did, onthe manager's face. He was relieved at the inflexible smile he sawthere."My dear lady," said Wyatt, kindly, "that is--absolutely--out of thequestion! Anything in reason I will be delighted to do for Penroseand Miss Archer--but you must surely realize that I can't do that!""But wait!" said Mrs. Coppered, eagerly, not at all discouraged."Don't say no yet! I am an actress, Mr. Wyatt, or was one. I knowthe part thoroughly. And the circumstances--the circumstances areunusual, aren't they?"While she was speaking the manager was steadily shaking his head."I have no doubt you could play the part," said he, "but I can'tupset my whole company by substituting now. Tomorrow is going to bea big night. The house is completely sold out to the Masons--theirconvention week, you know. As it happens, there couldn't be a moreinconvenient time. No, I can't consider it!"Mrs. Coppered smiled at him. She had a very winning smile."It would mean a rehearsal; I suppose that would be inconvenient, tobegin with," she said."Exactly," said Wyatt. "Friday night. I can't ask my people torehearse to-morrow.""But suppose you put it to them and they were all willing?" pursuedthe lady."My dear lady, I tell you it's absolutely--" He made a goadedgesture. Then, making fierce little dashes and dots on his blotterwith his pencil, and eying each one ferociously as he made it, headded irritably, but in a quieter tone: "You're an actress, eh?Where'd you get your experience?""With various stock companies on the Pacific Coast," she answeredreadily. "My name was Margaret Charteris. I don't suppose you everheard it?""As it happens, I have," he returned, surprised into interest. "Youknew Joe Pitcher, of course. He spoke of you. I remember the namevery well.""Professor Pitcher!" she exclaimed radiantly. "Of course I knew him--dear old man! Where is he--still there?""Still there," he assented absently. "You married, I think?""I am Mrs. Coppered now--Mrs. Carey Coppered," she said. The mangave her a suddenly awakened glance."Surely," he said thoughtfully. They looked steadily at each other,and Duncan saw the color come into Margaret's face. There was alittle silence.Then the manager flung down his pencil, wheeled about in his chair,and rubbed his hands briskly together."Well!" he said. "And you think you can take Miss Archer's place,Mrs. Coppered?""If you will let me.""Why," he said,--and Duncan would not have believed that thesomewhat heavy face could wear a look so pleasant,--"you are doingso much, Mrs. Coppered, in stepping into the gap this way, that I'lldo my share if I can! Perhaps I can't arrange it, but we can try.I'll call a rehearsal and speak to Miss Forsythe to-night. If youknow the part, it's just possible that by going over it now we canget out of a rehearsal tomorrow. She wants to be with the littleboy, eh?" he added musingly. "Yes, I suppose it might make a bigdifference, his not being terrified by strangers." And then, turningtoward Margaret, he said warmly and a little awkwardly: "This is aremarkably kind thing for you to do, Mrs. Coppered.""Oh, I would do more than that for Mary Penrose," said she, with alittle difficulty. "She knows it. She wired me as a mad last hopetoday, and we came as fast as we could, Mr. Coppered and I." And sheintroduced Duncan very simply: "My stepson, Mr. Wyatt."Duncan, fuming, could be silent no longer."I hope my--Mrs. Coppered is not serious in offering to do this,"said he, very white, and in a slightly shaking voice. "I assure youthat my father--that every one!--would think it a most extraordinarything to do!"Mrs. Coppered laid her hand lightly on his arm."Yes, I know, Duncan!" said she, quickly, soothingly. "I know howyou feel! But--"Duncan slightly repudiated the touch."I can't think how you can consider it!" he said passionately, butin a low voice. "A thing like this always gets out! You know--youknow how your having been on the stage is regarded by our friends!It is simply insane--"He had said a little more than he meant, in his high feeling, andMargaret's face had grown white."I asked you only for your escort, Duncan," she said gently, butwith blazing eyes. There was open hostility in the look theyexchanged."I can't see what good my escort does," said the boy, childishly,"when you won't listen to what you know is true!""Nevertheless, I still want it," she answered evenly. And after amoment Duncan, true to his training, and already a little ashamed ofhis ineffectual outburst,--for to waste a display of emotion was, inhis code, a lamentable breach of etiquette,--shrugged his shoulders."Still want to stay with it?" said Mr. Wyatt, giving her a shrewd,friendly look."Certainly," she said promptly; but she was breathing fast."Then we might go and talk things over," he said; and a moment laterthey were crossing the theatre to the stage door. The final curtainhad fallen only a moment before, but the lights were up, theorchestra halfway through a swift waltz, and the audience, buttoningcoats and struggling with gloves, was pouring up the aisles. Duncan,through all his anger and apprehension, felt a little thrill ofsuperiority over these departing playgoers as he and his stepmotherwere admitted behind the scenes. He was young, and the imaginedromance of green-rooms and footlights appealed to him.The company, suddenly summoned, appeared in various stages of streetand stage attire. Peg, a handsome young woman with brilliant colorand golden hair, still wore her brocaded gown and patches, and wore,in addition, a slightly affronted look at this unprecedentedproceeding. The other members of the cast, yawning, slightlycurious, were grouped about in the great draughty space between thewings that it cost Duncan some little effort to realize was thestage.From this group, as Margaret followed the stage manager into thecircle of light, a little woman suddenly detached herself, and,running across the stage and breaking into sobs as she ran, she wasin Margaret's arms in a second."Oh, Meg, Meg, Meg!" she cried, laughing and crying at the sametime. "I knew you'd come! I knew you'd manage it somehow! I've beenpraying so--I've been watching the clock! Oh, Meg," she went onpitifully, fumbling blindly for a handkerchief, "he's been sufferingso, and I had to leave him! They thought he was asleep, but when Itried to loosen his little hand he woke up!""Mary--Mary!" said Mrs. Coppered, soothingly, patting the bowedshoulder. No one else moved; a breathless attention held the group."Of course I came," she went on, with a little triumphant laugh,"and I think everything's all right!""Yes, I know," said Mrs. Penrose, with a convulsive effort at self-control. She caught Margaret's soft big muff, and drew it across hereyes. "I'm ru-ru-ruining your fur, Margaret!" she said, laughingthrough tears, "but--but seeing you this way, and realizing that Icould go--go--go to him now--""Mary, you must not cry this way," said Mrs. Coppered, seriously."You don't want little Phil to see you with red eyes, do you? Mr.Wyatt and I have been talking it over," she went on, "but it remainsto be seen, dear, if all the members of the company are willing togo to the trouble." Her apologetic look went around the listeningcircle. "It inconveniences every one, you know, and it would mean arehearsal tonight--this minute, in fact, when every one's tired andcold." Her voice was soothing, very low. But the gentle tonescarried their message to every one there. The mortal cleverness ofsuch an appeal struck Duncan sharply, as an onlooker.The warm-hearted star, Eleanor Forsythe, whose photographs Duncanhad seen hundreds of times, was the first to respond with a half-indignant protest that she wasn't too tired and cold to do that muchfor the dear kiddy, and other volunteers rapidly followed suit. Tenminutes later the still tearful little mother was actually in a cabwhirling through the dark streets toward the hospital where thechild lay, and a rehearsal was in full swing upon the stage of theColonial. Only the few actors actually necessary to the scenes inwhich Mabel figures need have remained; but a general spirit ofsympathetic generosity kept almost the entire cast. Mr. Penrose, asTriplet, had the brunt of the dialogue to carry; and he andMargaret, who had quite unaffectedly laid aside her furs and enteredseriously into the work of the evening, remained after all theothers had lingered away, one by one.Duncan watched from one of the stage boxes, his vague, romanticideas of life behind the footlights rather dashed before the threehours of hard work were over. This was not very thrilling; this hadno especial romantic charm. The draughts, the dust, the wide, icyspace of the stage, the droning voices, the crisp interruptions, thestupid "business," endlessly repeated, all seemed equallydisenchanting. The stagehands had set the stage for the next day'sopening curtain, and had long ago departed. Duncan was cold, tired,headachy. He began to realize the edge of a sharp appetite, too; heand Margaret had barely touched their dinner, back at home thoseages ago.He could have forgiven her, he told himself, bitterly, if thisplunge into her old life had had some little glory in it. If, forinstance, Mrs. Gregory had asked her to play Lady Macbeth or LadyTeazle in amateur theatricals at home, why one could excuse her foryielding to the old lure. But this, this secondary part, thesecommonplace, friendly actors, this tiring night experience, thiseager deference on her part to every one, this pitiful anxiety toplease, where she should, as Mrs. Carey Coppered, have been proudlycommanding and dictatorial--it was all exasperating anddisappointing to the last degree; it was, he told himself, savagely,only what one might have expected!Presently, when Duncan was numb in every limb, Margaret began tobutton herself into her outer wraps, and, escorted by Penrose, theywent to supper. Duncan hesitated at the door of the cafe."This is an awful place, isn't it?" he objected. "You can't be goingin here!""One must eat, Duncan!" Mrs. Coppered said blithely, leading theway. "And all the nice places are closed at this hour!" Duncansullenly followed; but, in the flood of reminiscences upon which sheand Penrose instantly embarked, his voice was not missed. Mollifiedin spite of himself by delicious food and strong coffee, he watchedthem, the man's face bright through its fatigue, his stepmotherglowing and brilliant."I'll see this through for Dad's sake," said Duncan, grimly, tohimself; "but, when he finds out about it, she'll have to admit Ikicked the whole time!"At four o'clock they reached the Penroses' hotel, where rooms weresecured for Duncan and Margaret. The boy, dropping with sleep, heardher cheerfully ask at the desk to be called at seven o'clock."I've a cloak to buy," she explained, in answer to his glance ofprotest, "and a hairdresser to see, and a hat to find--they may bedifficult to get, too! And I must run out and have just a glimpse oflittle Phil, and get to the theatre by noon; there's just a littlemore going over that second act to do! But don't you get up.""I would prefer to," said Duncan, with dignity, taking his key.But he did not wake until afternoon, when the thin winter sunlightwas falling in a dazzling oblong on the floor of his room; and eventhen he felt a little tired and stiff. He reached for his watch--almost one o'clock! Duncan's heart stood still. Had she overslept?He sat up a little dazed, and, doing so, saw a note on the littletable by his bed. It was from Margaret, and ran:Dear Duncan:If you don't wake by one they're to call you, for I want you to seeMabel's entrance. I've managed my hat and cloak, and seen the child--he's quiet and not in pain, thank God. Have your breakfast, andthen come to the box-office; I'll leave a seat for you there. Orcome behind and see me, if you will, for I am terribly nervous andwould like it. So glad you're getting your sleep. Margaret.P.S. Don't worry about the nerves; I always am nervous.Duncan looked at the note for three silent minutes, sitting on theedge of his bed."I'm sorry. She--she wanted me. I wish I'd waked!" he said slowly,aloud.And ten minutes later, during a hurried dressing, he read the noteagain, and said, aloud again:"'Have breakfast'! I wonder if she had hers?"He entered the theatre so late, for all his hurry, that the firstact was over and the second well begun, and was barely in his seatbefore the now familiar opening words of Mabel Vane's part fellclearly on the silence of the darkened house.For a moment Duncan thought, with a great pang of relief, that someone else was filling his stepmother's place; but he recognized herin another minute, in spite of rouge and powder and the piquantdress she wore. His heart stirred with something like pride. She wasbeautiful in her flowered hat and the caped coat that showed a foamof lacy frills at the throat; and she was sure of herself, herealized in a moment, and of her audience. She made a fresh andappealing figure of the plucky little country bride, and the oldlines fell with delicious naturalness from her lips.Duncan's heart hardly beat until the fall of the curtain; tears cameto his eyes; and when Margaret shared the applause of the house withthe gracious Peg, he found himself shaking with a violent nervousreaction.He was still deeply stirred when he went behind the scenes after theplay. His stepmother presently came up from her dressing-room,dressed in street clothes and anxious to hurry to the hospital andhave news of the little boy.Duncan called a taxicab, for which she thanked him absently and withworried eyes; and presently, with her and with the child's father,he found himself speeding toward the hospital. It was a silent trip.Margaret kept her ungloved fingers upon Penrose's hand, and saidonly a cheerful word of encouragement now and then.Duncan waited in the cab, when they went into the big building. Shewas gone almost half an hour. Darkness came, and a sharp rain beganto fall.He was half drowsy when she suddenly ran down the long steps andjumped in beside him. Her face was radiant, in spite of the signs oftears about her eyes."He took the ether like a little soldier!" she said, as the motor-car slowly wheeled up the wet street. "Mary held his hand all thewhile. Everything went splendidly, and he came out of it at aboutfour. Mary sang him off to sleep, sitting beside him, and she'sstill there--he hasn't stirred! Dr. Thorpe is more than wellsatisfied; he said the little fellow had nerves of iron! And theother doctor isn't even going to come in again! And Thorpe says itis largely because he could have his mother!"But the exhilaration did not last. Presently she leaned her headback against the seat, and Duncan saw how marked was the pallor ofher face, now that the rouge was gone. There was fatigue in thedroop of her mouth, and in the deep lines etched under her eyes."It's after six, Duncan," she said, without opening her eyes, "so Ican't sleep, as I hoped! We'll have to dine, and then go straight tothe theatre!""You're tired," said the boy, abruptly. She opened her eyes at thetone, and forced a smile."No--or, yes, I am, a little. My head's been aching. I wish to-nightwas over." Suddenly she sighed. "It's been a strain, hasn't it?" shesaid. "I knew it would be, but I didn't realize how hard! I justwanted to do something for them, you know, and this was all I couldthink of. And I've been wishing your father had been here; I don'tknow what he will say. I don't stop to think--when it's the people Ilove--" she said artlessly. "I dread--" she began again, but leftthe sentence unfinished, after all, and looked out of the window. "Isuspect you're tired, too!" she went on brightly, after a moment. "Ishan't forget what a comfort it's been to have you with me throughthis queer experience, Duncan. I know what it has cost you, mydear.""Comfort!" echoed Duncan. He tried to laugh, but the laugh brokeitself off gruffly. He found himself catching her hand, putting hisfree arm boyishly about her shoulders. "I'm not fit to speak to you,Margaret!" he said huskily. "You're--you're the best woman I everknew! I want you to know I'm sorry--sorry for it all--everything!And as for Dad, why, he'll think what I think--that you're the onlyperson in the world who'd do all this for another woman's kid!"Mrs. Coppered had tried to laugh, too, as she faced him. But thetears came too quickly. She put her wet face against his roughovercoat and for a moment gave herself up to the luxury of tears."Carey," said his wife, on a certain brilliant Sunday morning amonth later, when he had been at home nearly a month. She put herhead in at the library door. "Carey, will you do me a favor?"He looked up to smile at her, in her gray gown and flowered hat, andshe came in to take the seat opposite him at the broad table."I will. Where are you going?""Duncan and I are going to church, and you're to meet us at theGregorys' for lunch," she reminded him."Yes'm. And what do you two kids want? What's the favor?""Oh!" She became serious. "You remember what I told you of our NewYork trip a month ago, Carey? The Penroses, you know?""I do.""Well, Carey, I've discovered that it has been worrying Duncan eversince you got home, because he thinks I'm keeping it from you.""Thinks you haven't told me, eh?""Yes. Don't laugh that way, Carey! Yes. And he asked me in thesweetest little way, a day or two ago, if I wouldn't tell you allabout it.""What did you do--box his young ears?""No." Margaret's eyes laughed, but she shook her head reprovingly."I thought it was so dear of him to feel that way, yet never giveyou even a hint, that I--""Well?" smiled her husband, as she paused."Well," hesitated Mrs. Coppered. And then in a little burst sheadded: "I said, 'Duncan, if you ask me to I will tell him!'""And what do you think you gain by that, Sapphira?" said Carey, muchamused."Why, don't you see? Don't you see it means everything to him tohave stood by me in this, and now to clear it all up between us!Don't you see that it makes him one of us, in a way? He's done hisadored father a real service--""And his adored mother, too?"His tone brought the happy tears to her eyes."And the favor?" he said presently."Oh! Well, you see, I'm supposed to be 'fessing up the wholehorrible business, Carey, and in a day or two I want you to thankhim, just in some general way,--you'll know how!--for looking outfor me so well while you were away. Will you?""I will," he promised slowly."He's coming downstairs--so good-by!" said she. She came around thetable to kiss him, and, suddenly smitten with a sense of youth andwell-being and the glory of the spring morning, she added a littlewistfully:"I wonder what I've done to be so happy, Carey--I wonder what I'veever done to be so loved?""I wonder!" said Carey, smiling.

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