And now Di’s spirits rose.  To her his presence meant repentance, recapitulation.  Her laugh rang out, her replies came archly.  But Bobby was plainly not playing up.  Bobby was, in fact, hardly less than glum.  It was Dwight, the irrepressible fellow, who kept the talk going.  And it was no less than deft, his continuously displayed ability playfully to pierce Lulu.  Some one had “married at the drop of the hat.  You know the kind of girl?” And some one “made up a likely story to soothe her own pride—­you know how they do that?”

“Well,” said Ina, “my part, I think the most awful thing is to have somebody one loves keep secrets from one.  No wonder folks get crabbed and spiteful with such treatment.”

“Mamma!” Monona shouted from her room.  “Come and hear me say my prayers!”

Monona entered this request with precision on Ina’s nastiest moments, but she always rose, unabashed, and went, motherly and dutiful, to hear devotions, as if that function and the process of living ran their two divided channels.

She had dispatched this errand and was returning when Mrs. Bett crossed the lawn from Grandma Gates’s, where the old lady had taken comfort in Mrs. Bett’s ministrations for an hour.

“Don’t you help me,” Mrs. Bett warned them away sharply.  “I guess I can help myself yet awhile.”

She gained her chair.  And still in her momentary rule of attention, she said clearly: 

“I got a joke.  Grandma Gates says it’s all over town Di and Bobby Larkin eloped off together to-day. He!” The last was a single note of laughter, high and brief.

The silence fell.

“What nonsense!” Dwight Herbert said angrily.

But Ina said tensely:  “Is it nonsense?  Haven’t I been trying and trying to find out where the black satchel went?  Di!”

Di’s laughter rose, but it sounded thin and false.

“Listen to that, Bobby,” she said.  “Listen!”

“That won’t do, Di,” said Ina.  “You can’t deceive mamma and don’t you try!” Her voice trembled, she was frantic with loving and authentic anxiety, but she was without power, she overshadowed the real gravity of the moment by her indignation.

“Mrs. Deacon——­” began Bobby, and stood up, very straight and manly before them all.

But Dwight intervened, Dwight, the father, the master of his house.  Here was something requiring him to act.  So the father set his face like a mask and brought down his hand on the rail of the porch.  It was as if the sound shattered a thousand filaments—­where?

“Diana!” his voice was terrible, demanded a response, ravened among them.

“Yes, papa,” said Di, very small.

“Answer your mother.  Answer me.  Is there anything to this absurd tale?”

“No, papa,” said Di, trembling.

“Nothing whatever?”

“Nothing whatever.”

“Can you imagine how such a ridiculous report started?”