Arthur had kept away because--so he told himself and believed--while he
was not in the least responsible for his father's illness, still seeing
him and being thus reminded of their difference could not but have a bad
effect. That particular day, as luck would have it, he for the first time
since his father was stricken had left the grounds. "He's out driving,"
said his mother.

"In the tandem?" asked Hiram.

"Yes," replied Ellen, knowing nothing of the last development of the
strained relations between her husband and her "boy."

"Then he hasn't gone to work?"

"He's stayed close to the house ever since you were taken sick, Hiram,"
said she, with gentle reproach. "He's been helping me nurse you."

Hiram did not need to inquire how little that meant. He knew that, when
anyone Ellen Ranger loved was ill, she would permit no help in the
nursing, neither by day nor by night. He relapsed into his brooding over
the problem which was his sad companion each conscious moment, now that
the warning "Put your house in order" had been so sternly emphasized.

The day Dr. Schulze let them bring him down to the first floor, Mrs.
Hastings--"Mrs. Fred," to distinguish her from "Mrs. Val"--happened to
call. Mrs. Ranger did not like her for two reasons--first, she had
married her favorite cousin, Alfred Hastings, and had been the
"ruination" of him; second, she had a way of running on and on to
everyone and anyone about the most intimate family affairs, and