She spoke with a forced gaiety that might have deceived anyone but the judge.  He understood the motive of her sudden change in manner and silently he blessed her for making his burden lighter.

“Yes, dear, it’s not bad,” he said.  “There’s not much room, though.”

“There’s quite enough,” she insisted.  “Let me see.”  She began to count on her fingers.  “Upstairs—­three rooms, eh? and above that three more—­”

“No,” smiled the judge, “then comes the roof?”

“Of course,” she laughed, “how stupid of me—­a nice gable roof, a sloping roof that the rain runs off beautifully.  Oh, I can see that this is going to be awfully jolly—­just like camping out.  You know how I love camping out.  And you have a piano, too.”

She went over to the corner where stood one of those homely instruments which hardly deserve to be dignified by the name piano, with a cheap, gaudily painted case outside and a tin pan effect inside, and which are usually to be found in the poorer class of country boarding houses.  Shirley sat down and ran her fingers over the keys, determined to like everything.

“It’s a little old,” was her comment, “but I like these zither effects.  It’s just like the sixteenth-century spinet.  I can see you and mother dancing a stately minuet,” she smiled.

“What’s that about mother dancing?” demanded Mrs. Rossmore, who at that instant entered the room.  Shirley arose and appealed to her: 

“Isn’t it absurd, mother, when you come to think of it, that anybody should accuse father of being corrupt and of having forfeited the right to be judge?  Isn’t it still more absurd that we should be helpless and dejected and unhappy because we are on Long Island instead of Madison Avenue?  Why should Manhattan Island be a happier spot than Long Island?  Why shouldn’t we be happy anywhere; we have each other.  And we do need each other.  We never knew how much till to-day, did we?  We must stand by each other now.  Father is going to clear his name of this preposterous charge and we’re going to help him, aren’t we, mother?  We’re not helpless just because we are women.  We’re going to work, mother and I.”

“Work?” echoed Mrs. Rossmore, somewhat scandalized.

“Work,” repeated Shirley very decisively.

The judge interfered.  He would not hear of it.

“You work, Shirley?  Impossible!”

“Why not?  My book has been selling well while I was abroad.  I shall probably write others.  Then I shall write, too, for the newspapers and magazines.  It will add to our income.”

“Your book—­’The American Octopus,’ is selling well?” inquired the judge, interested.

“So well,” replied Shirley, “that the publishers wrote me in Paris that the fourth edition was now on the press.  That means good royalties.  I shall soon be a fashionable author.  The publishers will be after me for more books and we’ll have all the money we want.  Oh, it is so delightful, this novel sensation of a literary success!” she exclaimed with glee.  “Aren’t you proud of me, dad?”