“And that’s it—­eh, Moira?”

She nodded brightly.

“I can see that you and Miss Sumner evidently hit it off just right with each other.  Are you going to call on her again?”

“Oh, yes!  She begged me to.  She says she’s lonesome.”

“I dare say she is, Moira.  Well, her choice of a pal is a tribute to the brains I suspected her of possessing, and I’m glad you’ve gotten to know each other.  I’ve no doubt you find life a little lonely sometimes.”

“Sometimes, Mr. Bryce.”

“How’s my father?”

“Splendid.  I’ve taken good care of him for you.”

“Moira, you’re a sweetheart of a girl.  I don’t know how we ever managed to wiggle along without you.”  Fraternally—­almost paternally —­he gave her radiant cheek three light little pats as he strode past her to the private office.  He was in a hurry to get to his desk, upon which he could see through the open door a pile of letters and orders, and a moment later he was deep in a perusal of them, oblivious to the fact that ever and anon the girl turned upon him her brooding, Madonna-like glance.

That night Bryce and his father, as was their custom after dinner, repaired to the library, where the bustling and motherly Mrs. Tully served their coffee.  This good soul, after the democratic fashion in vogue in many Western communities, had never been regarded as a servant; neither did she so regard herself.  She was John Cardigan’s housekeeper, and as such she had for a quarter of a century served father and son their meals and then seated herself at the table with them.  This arrangement had but one drawback, although this did not present itself until after Bryce’s return to Sequoia and his assumption of the direction of the Cardigan destinies.  For Mrs. Tully had a failing common to many of her sex:  she possessed for other people’s business an interest absolutely incapable of satisfaction—­ and she was, in addition, garrulous beyond belief.  The library was the one spot in the house which at the beginning of her employment John Cardigan had indicated to Mrs. Tully as sanctuary for him and his; hence, having served the coffee this evening, the amiable creature withdrew, although not without a pang as she reflected upon the probable nature of their conversation and the void which must inevitably result by reason of the absence of her advice and friendly cooperation and sympathy.

No sooner had Mrs. Tully departed than Bryce rose and closed the door behind her.  John Cardigan opened the conversation with a contented grunt: 

“Plug the keyhole, son,” he continued.  “I believe you have something on your mind—­and you know how Mrs. Tully resents the closing of that door.  Estimable soul that she is, I have known her to eavesdrop.  She can’t help it, poor thing!  She was born that way.”

Bryce clipped a cigar and held a lighted match while his father “smoked up.”  Then he slipped into the easy-chair beside the old man.