winded that she could not speak. When she recovered her breath, she said, "I remembered the other night that they'd been sweet on each other once."
Still Emma walked furiously in silence, and presently Mabelle said, "Of course, I didn't say anything about her to Naomi. She might be upset just now."
"No," said Emma, "and don't say anything to her about it or to any one else. It's nonsense."
"Well, I didn't know. I was just interested in Philip, and Naomi, and in his queer behavior, and I always find that when a man goes off his head like that, there's a woman about somewhere."
"I forbid you, Mabelle, to speak of it to any one." She halted and took Mabelle by the shoulder. "You understand? That's the way silly talk gets started."
Mabelle was silent as they resumed their way, but presently she said, "That Lily Shane . . . she's come home to see the old woman die."
"They're a bad lot, all of 'em," said Emma, "and I guess she's the Jezebel of the lot."
"I hate to see a good boy like Philip getting mixed up with people like that."
"He's not getting mixed up, I tell you."
"What am I to tell people about him, Em, if they ask me?"
"Tell them that he's going to be an artist. You might say, too, that he has a fine talent, and later he's going to New York to study."
She had thought it all out. There was only one method—"to take the bull by the horns." If Philip wasn't one day to be a bishop, he might be a great artist and paint great religious pictures like the man
