“I’m more concerned about Gertrude’s name,” Tom said.

Gertrude’s eyes flashed daggers at Tom.

“Of course Gertrude mustn’t keep company with Mr. Falconer,” said the mother.  “Young girls can’t be too particular who they ’sociate with.”

Susan said nothing on the subject, though by far the most concerned of the party on her sister’s account.  It was significant and alarming, the warmth and persistence with which Gertrude defended Mr. Falconer.  It was evident that her interest was in some way enlisted.  Was it sympathy she felt, or was hers a generous stand against a possible injustice?  Whatever the feeling, there was danger in this young and ardent girl becoming the partisan of an interesting man.  Yet how could she, the involved, bewildered Susan, dare warn Gertrude?  How could she ever do it?  Would it not seem even to her own heart that she was acting selfishly?  How could she satisfy her own conscience that she was not moved by jealousy?  Besides, what could she say?  Gertrude knew all that she could tell her of Mr. Falconer and his relations—­knew everything except that she, Susan, had loved—­and, alas! did yet love unasked—­this unworthy man.

Ought she, as her mother had advised, demand possession of her house?  She shrunk from striking at a man—­above all, this man—­whom so many were assaulting.  No.  She would leave God to deal with him.  Besides, there might be nothing wrong.  All might yet be explained, all might yet be set to rights, all—­unless, unless Gertrude—­Oh, why should there arise this new and terrible complication?  Gertrude with her youth and beauty and enthusiasm—­why must she be drawn into the wretchedness?

For days, feverish, haunted days, Susan went over and over these questions and speculations.  In the mean time, Tom entered another complaint against Gertrude.  “She gave the greater part of last evening to the fellow,” he said.

“The party was stiff and stupid:  Margaret Pillsbury’s parties always are—­no dancing, no cards.  Mr. Falconer was the only man there who could say anything.”  This was Gertrude’s defence, given with some confusion, and with more of doggedness than defiance in her tone.

“I told you, Gertrude, you had ought to stop keeping company with Mr. Falconer,” said her mother.

“If she doesn’t stop, she will force me to insult the gentleman,” said Brother Tom resolutely.

Gertrude looked at the speaker as though she would like to bite him with all her might.

“Now, don’t go to getting into a fuss,” the mother said to Tom.  “Gertrude must stop, or else she’ll have to stop going to parties and stay to home.”

Gertrude did not speak, but Susan, glancing up, saw a set look in the young face that struck a terror to her heart.  She believed that she could interpret her sister’s every look and mood—­that she knew Gertrude by heart.

“By their opposition they are only strengthening her interest:”  this was Susan’s conclusion.