“Oh, perhaps not exactly as Miss Miller does, but”—­

“George!”

“I say you didn’t.  But anybody can see that Ellen is a sensible girl, and yet she giggles.”

“Not at the prospect of marriage, papa,” the girl replied.  “To look at Mr. Brooks and his wife is quite enough to make me serious.”

“Brooks and his wife?  What do you mean?”

“Perhaps I oughtn’t to have said anything, but they appear to make each other miserable.  There, now, I wish I hadn’t said anything.  I might have known that it would make you look glum.”

“How do you know that they make each other miserable?”

“I know this, that when they should be on their good behavior they can’t keep from snapping at each other.  I was over there this afternoon, and when Mr. Brooks came home he began to growl about the preacher’s coming once a week to pray for Mrs. Colton.  He ought to be ashamed of himself.  The poor old creature lies there so helpless; and he wants to deny her even the consolation of hearing her pastor’s voice.  And he knows that she was so devoted to the church.”

“My daughter,” Witherspoon gravely said, “there must be some mistake about this.”

“But I know that there isn’t any mistake about it.  I was there, I tell you.”

“And still there may be some mistake,” Witherspoon insisted.

“What doctor’s treating the old lady?” Henry asked.

“A celebrated specialist, Brooks tells me,” Witherspoon answered.

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t remember,” said Witherspoon.  “Do you know, Ellen?”

“Doctor Linmarck,” Ellen answered.

“Let us not think of anything so very unpleasant,” said Mrs. Witherspoon.

But the spirit of pleasantry was flown.  With another imitation of Miss Miller, Ellen strove to call it back, but failed, for Witherspoon paid no attention to her.  He sat brooding, with a countenance as fixed as the expression of a mask, and in his gaze, bent on that nothing through which nothing can be seen, there was no light.

“Father, do your new slippers fit?” Mrs. Witherspoon asked.  He was not George now.

“Very nicely,” he answered, with a warning absentmindedness.  Presently he went to the library, and shutting out the amenities of that cheerful evening, shut in his own somber brooding.

“I don’t see why he should let that worry him so,” said Mrs. Witherspoon.  “He’s getting to be so sensitive over Brooks.”

“I don’t think it’s his sensitiveness over Brooks, mother,” Ellen replied, “but the fact that he is gradually finding out that Brooks is not so perfect as he pretends to be.”

“I don’t know,” the mother rejoined, “but I think he has just as much confidence in Brooks as he ever had.  I know he said last night that the Colossus couldn’t get along without him.”

“Ellen,” said Henry, “what is the name of that doctor?”