Chapter I

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      Miranda Griscom opened the long wooden shutters of the Spafford parlor and threw them back with a triumphant clang, announcing the opening of a new day. She arranged the slat shades at just the right angle, gave a comprehensive glance at the immaculate room, and whisked out on the front stoop with her broom.

      Not a cobweb reared in the night remained for any early morning visitor to view with condemning eye, no, not if he arrived before breakfast, for Miranda always descended upon the unsightly gossamer and swept it out of existence the very first thing in the morning.

      The steps were swept clean, also the seats on either side of the stoop, even the ceiling and rails, then she descended to the brick pavement and plied her broom like a whirlwind till every fallen leaf and stray bit of dust hurried away before her onslaught. With an air of duty for the moment done, Miranda returned to the stoop, and leaning on her broom gazed diagonally across the street to the great house set back a little from the road, and surrounded by a row of stately stiff gray poplars.

      Just so she had stood and gazed every morning, briefly, for the past five years; ever since the owner of that stately mansion had offered her his heart and hand, and the opportunity to bring up his family of seven.

      It had been a dark rainy night in the middle of November, that time he first came to see her. All day long it had drizzled, and by evening settled into a steady dismal pour. Miranda had been upstairs, when he knocked, hovering over the baby Rose, tucking the soft blankets with tender brooding hand, stooping low over the cradle to catch the soft music of her rose-leaf breath; and David Spafford had gone to the door to let his neighbor in.

      Nathan Whitney, tall, gaunt, gray and embarrassed, stood under his streaming umbrella on the front stoop with a background of rain, and gravely asked if he might see Miss Griscom.

      David, surprised but courteous, asked him in, took his dripping umbrella and overcoat from him, and escorted him into the parlor; but his face was a study of mingled emotions when he came softly into the library and shut the door before he told his young wife Marcia that Nathan Whitney was in the parlor and wanted to see Miranda.

      Marcia's speaking face went through all tile swift changes of surprise and wonder, but without a word save a moment's questioning with her eyes, she went to call Miranda.

      "Goodness me!" said that dazed individual, shading the candle from her eyes and looking at her mistress—and friend—with eyes that were almost frightened.

      "Goodness me! Mrs. Marcia, you don't mean to tell me that Nathan Whitney wants to see me?"

      "He asked for you, Miranda."

      "Why Mrs. Marcia, you must be mistooken. What would he want of me? He must nv ast fer Mr. David."

      "No, Mr. David went to the door," said Marcia smiling, "and he distinctly asked for Miss Griscom."

      "Griscom Did he say that name? Didn't he say Mirandy? Then that settles it. It's sompin' 'bout that rascally father uv mine. I've ben expectin' it all along since I was old 'nough to think. But why didn't he go to Grandma? I couldn't do nothin'. Ur—D'you 'spose, Mrs. Marcia, it could be he's a lawin' fer Grandma, tryin' to fix it so's I hev to go back to her? He's a lawyer y'know. But Grandma wouldn't go to do a thing like that 'thout sayin' a thing to Mr. David, would she?”

      Miranda's eyes were dilated, and her breath came fast. It seemed strange to Marcia to see the invincible Miranda upset this way.

      "Why of course not, Miranda," she said soothingly. "It's likely nothing much. Maybe he's just