Long years after these events,—a few months after her mother died, Ailsie and her “father” (as she always called Mr. Openshaw) drove to a cemetery a little way out of town, and she was carried to a certain mound by her maid, who was then sent back to the carriage. There was a head-stone, with F. W. and a date. That was all. Sitting by the grave, Mr. Openshaw told her the story; and for the sad fate of that poor father whom she had never seen, he shed the only tears she ever saw fall from his eyes.
* * * * *
“A most interesting story, all through,” I said, as Jarber folded up the first of his series of discoveries in triumph. “A story that goes straight to the heart—especially at the end. But”—I stopped, and looked at Trottle.
Trottle entered his protest directly in the shape of a cough.
“Well!” I said, beginning to lose my patience. “Don’t you see that I want you to speak, and that I don’t want you to cough?”
“Quite so, ma’am,” said Trottle, in a state of respectful obstinacy which would have upset the temper of a saint. “Relative, I presume, to this story, ma’am?”
“Yes, Yes!” said Jarber. “By all means let us hear what this good man has to say.”
“Well, sir,” answered Trottle, “I want to know why the House over the way doesn’t let, and I don’t exactly see how your story answers the question. That’s all I have to say, sir.”
I should have liked to contradict my opinionated servant, at that moment. But, excellent as the story was in itself, I felt that he had hit on the weak point, so far as Jarber’s particular purpose in reading it was concerned.
“And that is what you have to say, is it?” repeated Jarber. “I enter this room announcing that I have a series of discoveries, and you jump instantly to the conclusion that the first of the series exhausts my resources. Have I your permission, dear lady, to enlighten this obtuse person, if possible, by reading Number Two?”