“Do you mean that I am jealous?” asked Susan, an unusual light in her soft blue eyes.
“That makes no difference,” retorted Barbara. “The truth of the matter is, that you have stayed here, and have had some experience in housekeeping, and you have grown to think that it is so important that nothing else is of value to you—none of the higher things. If that is what you and Auburn mean,—that I care more for,—yes, Browning, and literature, and the real issues of life, than for housekeeping,—then you are quite right I do. And I always shall. And I must say that I resent any interference whatever.”
There was a long silence. Then Susan rose, biting her lips, to hide their trembling. “I must go,” she said.
“Can’t you stay longer?” asked Barbara, politely.
To both girls, the very air was full of constraint. Barbara accompanied her visitor to the gate, where they parted with scarcely a word. Then she turned back swiftly to the porch, and sat down in the chair just vacated by Susan. She pressed her hand to her temples.
“I must think this out,” she said aloud. “Could I have been wrong?”
Some time later, the Kid cantered up to the porch. He went straight to a bowed figure in the big chair, and pulled down the hands from the hidden face.
“I’m hungry, Barb’ra,” he said. “Isn’t supper ready?”
Barbara put her arms around him, and hugged him tightly.
“_You_ like me, little brother, don’t you?” she said.
“Of course,” answered the Kid, nonchalantly; “and I’m hungry.”
Barbara took him by the hand, and led him gently into the house.
“I think I can find something for hungry little boys,” she said.
“DADDY, please fasten me up,” said Barbara.
The doctor thrust two large hands inside of her gown, in the man’s way, using them as fulcrums over which to pull the fragile fabric with all the force of two strong thumbs. “Pretty snug, isn’t it?” he said. “Where are you going in your Sunday best?—mill or meeting?”
Barbara shook out the folds of her violet gown. “Meeting,” she responded. “The Woman’s Club has asked me to give them a paper to-day.”
“The Woman’s Club! What has become of the A. L. L. A.?”
“The Auburn Ladies’ Literary Association is still in existence, unfortunately. But it isn’t going to be long.”
“It’s going to have its name changed, if I have any influence with its members,” said Barbara. “Isn’t it absurd for it to go on calling itself ‘_Ladies’_ Literary Association,’ just because it has been used to the title for thirty years, when every other women’s organization in the country is ‘Woman’s Club’? And ‘_Literary_’! Did you ever hear of anything so pretentious! Nobody is literary nowadays, but Tolstoi and Maeterlinck. Besides, the name debars the members from philanthropic and civic work, which are the moving factors in all club life. I shall certainly make an effort to have the other members change the name, this very day.”