Dicky opened his mouth to reply, but I effectually stopped him, by a swift kick, which I think found a mark, for he jumped perceptibly and flashed me a wrathful look.  I knew that he was thinking of the strenuous objection his mother had made to our entertaining the Underwoods, and to the proposed visit of Robert Gordon to our home.  But I knew also that it was no time to rake up old scores.  I foresaw trouble enough in this proposed visit of my relatives-in-law whom I had never seen, without having things complicated by a row between Dicky and his mother.

There was trouble, too, in all the housecleaning, the re-arrangement of our rooms and in the laying in of a stock of provisions to meet the requirements of the menu for each meal that Mother Graham insisted upon deciding in advance to please her daughter and the children.  And then, the day they were to arrive, she received a special delivery letter calmly announcing that they were not coming.  But my annoyance was forgotten in Mother Graham’s very apparent and utter disappointment.

When I broke the news to Dicky he suggested that we have a party anyway, and Mother Graham sweetly acquiesced in our plans to invite the Underwoods.

Lillian’s voice over the telephone, however, made me forget all my contentment, and filled me with misgiving.  It was tense, totally unlike her usual bluff, hearty tones, and with an undercurrent in it that spelled tragedy.

“What is the trouble, Lillian?” I asked, as soon as I had heard her greeting; “I know something is the matter by your voice.”

“Yes, there is,” she replied, “but nothing of which I can speak over the ’phone.  Tell me, are you going to have any strangers there tomorrow?”

How like Lillian the bluff, honest speech was!  Almost any other woman would have hypocritically assured me that nothing was the matter.  But not Lillian Underwood!

“Nobody but the Durkees,” I assured her.  “They have already promised to be here.  But, Lillian, you surely must get here as soon as you can.  I shall be so worried until I see you.  If you don’t get here early tomorrow morning I shall come in after you.”

“You couldn’t keep me away, you blessed child, if you are going to have no strangers there,” Lillian returned.  “I don’t mind the Durkees.  But I need you, my dear, very much.  Now I must tell you something, don’t be shocked or surprised when you see me, for I shall be somewhat changed in appearance.  Run along to Dicky now.  I’ll be with you some time tomorrow forenoon.  Good-by.”

I almost forgot to hang up the telephone receiver in my bewilderment.  What trouble could have come to Lillian that she needed me?  She was the last person in the world to need any one, I thought—­she, whose sterling good sense and unfailing good-nature had helped me so many times.  And what change in her appearance did she mean when she cautioned me against being shocked and surprised at seeing her?