“Well?” he said, when he saw I was awake.

“I guess I was sleeping.”  I sat up and pushed in my hairpins and yawned.  I was tireder than ever.  “I’m clean worn out.”

“Of course you’re tired,” he declared angrily.  “You’re not a horse, and you haven’t been to bed for two nights.”

“Care killed the cat,” I said.  “I don’t mind losing sleep, but it’s like walking in a swamp, Mr. Pierce.  First I put a toe in—­that was when I asked you to stay over night.  Then I went a step farther, lured on, as you may say, by Miss Patty waving a crown or whatever it is she wants, just beyond my nose.  And to-night I’ve got a—­well, to-night I’m in to the neck and yelling for a quick death.”

He leaned over to where I sat before the fire and twisted my head toward him.

“To-night—­what?” he demanded.

But that minute I made up my mind not to tell him.  He might think the situation was too much for him and leave, or he might decide he ought to tell Miss Summers where Dick was.  There was no love lost between him and Mr. Carter.

“To-night—­I’m just tired and cranky,” I said, “so—­is Miss Summers settled yet?”

He nodded, as if he wasn’t thinking of Miss Summers.

“What did you tell her?”

“Haven’t seen her,” he said.  “Sent her a note that I was understudying a man named Carter and to mind to pick up her cues.”

“It’s a common enough name,” I said, but he had lighted his pipe again and had dropped forward, one elbow on his knee, his hand holding the bowl of his pipe, and staring into the fire.  He looked up when I closed and locked the pantry door.

“I’ve just been thinking,” he remarked, “here we are—­a group of people—­all struggling like mad for one thing, but with different motives.  Mine are plain enough and mercenary enough, although a certain red-haired girl with a fine loyalty to an old doctor and a sanatorium is carrying me along with her enthusiasm.  And Van Alstyne’s motives are clear enough—­and selfish.  Carter is merely trying to save his own skin—­but a girl like Miss Pat—­Miss Jennings!”

“There’s nothing uncertain about what she wants, or wrong either,” I retorted.  “She’s right enough.  The family can’t stand a scandal just now with her wedding so close.”

He smiled and got up, emptying his pipe.

“Nevertheless, oh, Minnie, of the glowing hair and heart,” he said, “Miss Jennings has disappointed me.  You see, I believe in marrying for love.”

“Love!” I was disgusted.  “Don’t talk to me about love!  Love is the sort of thing that makes two silly idiots run away and get married and live in a shelter-house, upsetting everybody’s plans, while their betters have to worry themselves sick and carry them victuals.”

He got up and began to walk up and down the spring-house, scowling at the floor.

“Of course,” he agreed, “he may be a decent sort, and she may really want him.”