The Morning Glory Club Part 29

"Yes."

"And they'd write to you, wouldn't they, about what kind of a woman she was, and so forth?"

"It is customary."

"And you'd write back, and tell 'em exactly how she happened to leave Manville, wouldn't you?"

"I should consider it my duty to state the truth." Mr. George was getting uneasy.

"And she wouldn't get the place."

"Hem--probably not."

"Pretty hard for a woman that's got to earn a livin'. It ain't too late for the school committee to take back what it's done, is it?" Mrs. Stout continued earnestly.

"No; but--"

"You won't do it. _Now_ I'm comin' to what I've got to say. You discharged Miss Wallace without any good reason. You--"

"Mrs. Stout, I protest," interrupted Mr. George. "There was a reason, and you know it as well as I do. Her costume at your club's entertainment was--"

"Be careful," warned Mrs. Stout.

"It is my custom," replied the committeeman, testily, "to speak with caution of one woman to--another woman."

"If you'd be as considerate when talkin' to men about one woman in pertic'ler there wouldn't have been any need of my comin' here to-night."

"Yes--hem--well, as I was about to say, she was--er--indiscreet,"

stammered Mr. George.

"That's what they all say," said Mrs. Stout, scornfully. "I s'pose it would have been all right if she'd worn a bathin'-suit. If Miss Wallace was indiscreet, what would you call your two girls when they went in bathin' down to Horse Shoe Beach last summer at the Sunday-school picnic before half the folks in Manville? Miss Wallace's costume wa'n't half as indiscreet as a wet bathin' suit is."

"Custom, Mrs. Stout, excuses many things," replied Mr. George, his face very red.

"Custom is often a mean excuse for not doin' right," retorted Mrs.

Stout. "Because it's been the custom since the year one for men to get drunk, and women's tongues to wag about other folkses business, does that make it right?"

Mr. George was silenced--completely out of action, and sat staring at his inquisitor, wondering what would come next.

"Mr. George," Mrs. Stout continued, "I'm goin' into politics next fall.

The law of this State only lets a woman vote for school committee, but in this case that's enough. That's all I've got to say, I guess, just now. If you should make up your mind to take Miss Wallace back I wish you'd let me know." With a glance of contempt at the man before her, Mrs. Stout left her chair, and started for the door. Mr. George followed, mechanically opened the door, and when she had gone out, closed it softly.

Mrs. Stout felt relieved, but not satisfied, after the two calls that she had made, and as she walked slowly homeward, planned the campaign that was to defeat Mr. George and his colleagues at the next election.

But her dreams of political victory were quickly dispelled when she reached home. Barbara and f.a.n.n.y were in tears.

"Well, well, what's happened now?" she asked.

"I--I told her about the sermon," sobbed f.a.n.n.y. "But I didn't intend to, really I didn't, Mrs. Stout."

"Well, she'd better hear it from her friends than somebody else," said Mrs. Stout, soothingly. "Secrets never do any good, anyway."

"I ought to know it," said Barbara. "Oh, what a wicked, wicked woman they think I am!" she moaned.

"But you're not, indeed you're not," cried f.a.n.n.y as she impulsively threw her arms about Barbara and kissed her.

"There, there," said Mrs. Stout, "cryin' won't help--hark!" Some one ran up the steps, and set the door-bell to jingling furiously.

"Goodness! who can that be?" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as she started for the door. Barbara sprang to her feet. Her hair was disarranged, her cheeks were wet with tears, there was a look of longing in her eyes, and on her lips trembled a smile.

"Why, Willie Flint!" they heard Mrs. Stout exclaim. Barbara did not move, but f.a.n.n.y tiptoed from the room. There was a heavy step in the hall. At the sound Barbara took a step forward.

"Will, Will!" she cried, as he came into the room.

In a moment his arms were about her, and then some one closed the door softly.

"Did I do wrong, Will?" Barbara asked an hour later when she had finished the story of the past week, omitting only the miserable part that his father had played.

"No, Barbara," he replied, and she was satisfied. But Will was not satisfied. He had walked up from the station with some one who had told him of his father's sermon, not knowing that Barbara was more to him than an acquaintance.

"And father, what has he done?" he asked, gravely.

Barbara looked up quickly, started to reply, but Will continued before the words came.

"Do _you_ know what he did to-day?"

"Yes," replied Barbara, faintly, "but--"

"And mother, have you seen her?" (What would she not have given to spare him that?) "Why did you not go to her?" Will was determined to know all.

"I--I did," Barbara faltered.

"When?"

"Will, dear, please don't ask me. I'm sure that she would have helped me if--"

"She refused to take you in?"

"Yes, but Will, don't judge them, please. I am sure that your father thought he was doing right and--"

"Yet he preaches of Christ."

"Will!"

"G.o.d seems to have forgotten Manville," he said, bitterly.

"No, Will, he is only showing us the way--and the others too."

"How can you say that, Barbara, when they've taken everything from you, position, name--"