The other girl shook her head.
“You don’t know Lance as I do, Tory, although you may believe you understand each other because you both possess the artistic temperament, or think you possess it. Lance will never willingly let us know what has become of him until he has accomplished at least a portion of what he hoped for. You need not think he does not suffer and long for father and Don and me. But he realized this before he went away and decided at last he could not endure to wait longer for a chance to study his beloved music. Lance used so often to tell me music was not like the other arts; unless one learned when one was young there was no opportunity afterwards.”
“Then you forgive Lance for all he has made you and your father and Don suffer? You do care for him more than your other brothers?”
The girl who had been questioned shook her head thoughtfully.
“I don’t know. I have not been able to make up my mind; perhaps I shall know some day. I only said I understood. If we could only be sure that Lance would send for some one or let us know if he were ill, father and I would be less miserable! We both realize that is just what Lance will never do. If he has made a mistake, he will feel he should pay for it. But please, Tory, let us talk of something else. I want to forget everything but our Scout meeting this afternoon. You have finished the bread and I’ll butter it. The chocolate will keep warm at the back of the stove. Suppose you see if Miss Frean wishes anything before the girls and Miss Mason arrive.”
Appreciating that Dorothy really wished to be alone for a few moments, Tory slipped away.
The only girl in a family of six brothers, Dorothy McClain held a peculiar affection for one of the brothers nearest her own age. Donald and Lance McClain were twins, and yet totally unlike in appearance and character. Donald was, like his sister, tall, with chestnut hair and blue eyes, and a love for athletic sports and the outdoors. Simple and normal in their habits and tastes, it had not always been easy for them to endure the vagaries of Lance, in spite of their devotion to him. The odd member of the family, Lance McClain had a passionate devotion for music with which no one of them could sympathize. He did not seem possessed of a remarkable genius; at least his father considered that he had only talent, and that music was no profession for a boy who was forced to earn his own living.
With six sons and a daughter, Dr. McClain, a village physician, did not see how it would be possible to give the delicate, erratic boy the musical education he would require. A few weeks before Lance had disappeared from his home in the small town of Westhaven, and so far no word had come from him. Remembering that he had threatened to spend the winter in New York, there could be but little doubt that he was in hiding there.
To-day the living-room of the House in the Woods was more than ordinarily lovely. Its simplicity, which approached austerity, was relieved by half a dozen vases and bowls of flowers. The eye fell at once upon a bouquet of red roses and violets in the center of a table near a big chair where a woman was half seated and half reclining. An open book was in her hands.
Tory looked from one to the other.