Arthur was silent.  Diplomacy meant deceit, and he hadn’t yet reached the stage of polite and comfortable compromise where deceit figures merely as an amiable convenience for promoting smoothness in human intercourse.  But he believed that his father would “come round all right,” as Mrs. Whitney had so comfortingly said.  How could it be otherwise when he had done nothing discreditable, but, on the contrary, had been developing himself in a way that reflected the highest credit upon his family, as it marched up toward the lofty goal of “cultured” ambition, toward high and secure social station.

Mrs. Whitney, however, did not believe her own statement.  In large part her reputation of being a “good, kind sort,” like many such reputations, rested on her habit of cheering on those who were going the wrong way and were disturbed by some suspicion of the truth.  She had known Hiram Ranger long, had had many a trying experience of his character, gentle as a trade wind—­and as steady and unchangeable.  Also, beneath her surface of desperate striving after the things which common sense denounces, or affects to denounce, as foolishness, there was a shrewd, practical person.  “He means some kind of mischief,” she thought—­an unreasoned, instinctive conclusion, and, therefore, all-powerful with a woman.

That evening she wrote her daughter not to cut short her visit to get to Saint X.  “Wait until Ross is ready.  Then you can join him at Chicago and let him bring you.”

Just about the hour she was setting down this first result of her instinct’s warning against the danger signal she had seen in Hiram Ranger’s manner, he was delivering a bombshell.  He had led in the family prayers as usual and had just laid the Bible on the center-table in the back parlor after they rose from their knees.  With his hands resting on the cover of the huge volume he looked at his son.  There was a sacrificial expression in his eyes.  “I have decided to withdraw Arthur’s allowance,” he said, and his voice sounded hollow and distant, as unfamiliar to his own ears as to theirs.  “He must earn his own living.  If he wants a place at the mills, there’s one waiting for him.  If he’d rather work at something else, I’ll do what I can to get him a job.”

Silence; and Hiram left the room.

Adelaide was first to recover sufficiently to speak.  “O mother,” cried she, “you’re not going to allow this!”

To Adelaide’s and Arthur’s consternation, Ellen replied quietly:  “It ain’t no use to talk to him.  I ain’t lived all these years with your father without finding out when he means what he says.”

“It’s so unjust!” exclaimed Adelaide.

There came into Ellen’s face a look she had never seen there before.  It made her say:  “O mother, I didn’t mean that; only, it does seem hard.”

Mrs. Ranger thought so, too; but she would have died rather than have made the thought treason by uttering it.  She followed her husband upstairs, saying:  “You and Arthur can close up, and put out the lights.”