Burton could have found his way to the Red House without any further direction than the clerk had given him, and it was chiefly curiosity that made him try another experiment on the way. He had come by the side street, and half a block away he saw the large red house facing toward Rowan street. At the rear ran a high board fence, separating the grounds belonging to the house from an alley which cut through the middle of the block. As he passed the end of the alley, he noticed a man and a woman talking together by the gate which opened into the house grounds. The woman\'s excited gestures caught his attention. She was shaking her hands at the man in a way that might have meant anger or impatience or merely dismissal, but which certainly meant something in a superlative and violent degree. Then she darted in through the gate, slamming it shut, and the man came running down the alley toward the street with a curious low lope that covered the ground amazingly, though it seemed effortless.

Burton had stopped, at first to see whether it were a case that called for interference. Now, as the man jumped out just in front of him, he spoke to him,--as much from a desire to see the face of a man who ran so furtively as from curiosity as to the effect the doctor\'s name would have. "Pardon me," he said. "Can you tell me if this is where Dr. Underwood lives?"

But this time his cast drew nothing. The man stopped a moment, cast a sharp though furtive glance up at his questioner, and shook his head.

"Don\'t know," he said curtly, and hurried on. Burton took the liberty of believing that the man had lied.

The Red House had a character and quality of its own that set it immediately apart from the rest of this half-baked town. It was a large house, with signs of age that were grateful to him, set back in extensive grounds which were surrounded by high hedges of shrubbery. The house itself was shaded by old trees, and the general effect of the place was one of aloofness, as different as possible from the cheap, new, easy-going publicity of the rest of the street. If it be true that human beings mould their surrounding to reflect their own characters, then the Underwoods were certainly not commonplace people. Burton was sensitive to influences, and as he stepped inside the grounds and let the gate shut behind him, he had an indefinable feeling that he had stepped into an alien territory. He glanced back at the street outside as an adventurer who has strayed into an enchanted land may look back for reassurance to the safe and commonplace country he has left.

A man in the rough dress of a gardener was down on his knees beside a flower-bed in the garden, and Burton approached him.

"Is this Dr. Underwood\'s house?"

"He lives here," the man said coolly, without glancing up.

"You mean he doesn\'t own it?" Burton asked, more for the sake of pursuing the conversation than from any special interest in Dr. Underwood\'s tax list.

"He couldn\'t own that, could he?" asked the man, pointing dramatically at the tulip about which he had been building up the earth.

"You are a philosopher as well as a gardener."

"I?" The man stood up, and Burton saw that he was young, and that his face, in spite of its somberness, was intelligent and not unattractive. "Oh, I am a human being, like the rest of the impertinent race. I try to forget what I am, but I have no right to. You do well to remind me."

"Why do you wish to forget?" asked Burton curiously.

"Who that is human would not wish to forget? Who that is human would not wish at times that he were a tulip, blooming in perfect beauty, and so doing all that could be asked of him? Or an oak, like that one, fulfilling its nature without blame and without harm?"

"Are you Ben Bussey?" Burton asked on a sudden impulse, remembering the name of the young man whom the hotel clerk had mentioned as being the subject of popular stories. This young man was certainly queer enough to give rise to legends.

He was not prepared for the effect of his question. The young man drew back as though he had been struck, while a look where fear and distaste and reproach were mingled darkened his face.

"Who are you?" he asked harshly. "What do you know about Ben Bussey?"

"I have heard the name mentioned, that\'s all, as that of a young man living with Dr. Underwood. I assure you I meant nothing offensive." Unconsciously he had adopted the tone of one speaking to an equal. This was no common gardener.

"No, I am not Ben Bussey," the young man said, after a pause in which he obviously struggled to regain his self-control. "I have often wished I were, however. I am Henry Underwood." He looked up with a sharp defiance in his eyes as he spoke the name. It was as though he expected to see some sign of repulsion.

"I am very glad to meet you, then. My name is Burton. Mrs. Overman, of Putney, asked me to bring a message to your sister."

"You will find her in the house, I suppose," the young man answered carelessly. He turned indifferently away, as though he had no further interest in his visitor, and in a few minutes he was bent over another flower-bed, absorbed in his work.

Burton walked up to the house, his pulses curiously atingle. No wonder the Underwoods got themselves talked about in the neighborhood, if this was a sample of the way in which they met the advances of strangers! After ringing the bell, he glanced back at Henry Underwood. He had risen from the ground and stood with bared head looking up into the branches of the oak with an expression that struck Burton even at that distance as inexpressibly sad.

The door was opened by a middle-aged servant, in whom Burton recognized the woman he had seen gesticulating so violently in the back yard. She looked out at him with surprise and caution, and with the obvious intent of not admitting him without cause shown.

"Is Miss Underwood at home?" he asked.

"I don\'t know. Likely she is," the woman answered, still with that uncomprehending look of wonder at his intrusion.

"Will you take her my card, please?" And with a little more muscular effort than he was in the habit of using when entering a house, he forced the door far enough back to enable him to pass the guarded portal, and with an air of assurance that was largely factitious, walked into a room opening from the hall, which he judged to be a reception room.

The woman followed him to the door and looked dubiously from him to his card, which she still held in her hand.

"I will wait here while you see if Miss Underwood is at home and whether she can see me. Please look her up at once," he said positively. The tone was effective. The woman departed.

The same evidences of old-time dignity and present-day decay that he had noted in the grounds struck Burton in the drawing-room. The room was a stately one, built according to the old ideas of spaciousness and leisure, but the carpet was worn, the upholstery dingy, and a general air of disuse showed that the days of receptions must be long past. Evidently the Underwoods were not living in the heyday of prosperity. To do Rachel justice, she would not care about that except incidentally. But she would care a great deal about the family\'s social standing. Burton tried, to the best of his masculine ability, to take an inventory of things that would enable him to answer the questions she was sure to pour out upon him,--always supposing his mission were in any degree successful.

He walked to the window and looked out upon the side garden. Not far from the house was a rustic seat, and here a lady was sitting,--a tall, gray-haired lady, reading a ponderous book. The conviction that this must be Mrs. Underwood made him look at her with the liveliest interest. The servant to whom Burton had given his card came out, in obvious haste and excitement, but the reading lady merely lifted a calm hand to check her, and turned her page without raising her eyes. But she shook her head, seemingly in answer to some question, and the messenger returned hastily to the house. The lady continued to read.

Burton smiled to himself over the little scene. Mrs. Underwood, if this were she, would be able to give points in self-possession to Rachel herself.

But the moment that Leslie Underwood entered the room, Burton forgot all his hesitations and reluctances. In the instant while he bowed before her, his mind took a right-about-face. It was not merely that she was unexpectedly beautiful. That would account for Philip\'s infatuation, but Burton was a keener judge of human nature. Behind the girl\'s mask of beauty there looked out a spirit so direct, so genuine, that it was like a touchstone to prove those qualities in others. Burton felt something pull him erect as he looked at her. Philip had drawn a prize which he probably neither understood nor deserved,--and the High Ridge tales about Dr. Underwood were preposterous absurdities. All this in the flash of an eye!

"You wished to see me?" she asked. Her voice had a vibrant ring.

"Yes,--though I am merely an ambassador." (No thought now of modifying his commission!) "I come from Philip Overman."

Her face flushed sensitively at the name.

"Philip has been seriously ill," he said.

"I am sorry to hear it."

"Even yet his condition causes keen anxiety to his mother."

A little change passed over her sensitive face,--could it have been a flicker of amusement? The suspicion helped to restore his nerve. Who was this young woman after all, that she should dare to smile at Rachel Overman\'s anxiety for her boy? People who knew Mrs. Overman were accustomed to treat even her whims with respect. He continued a thought more stiffly.

"His physician, I may say, admits that her fears are justified. He is in an extremely nervous and excitable condition, and it is considered that the best hope for his recovery lies in removing the cause of the mental disturbance which is at the root of his physical overthrow. His unhappiness is sending him into a decline."

She looked at him quizzically. There was no question now about the hidden amusement that brought that gleam into her eyes. And she answered with a rocking, monotonous cadence that flared its mockery in his ears.

"Men have died, and worms have eaten them," she said slowly, "but--not for love."

Burton flushed to the roots of his hair. He knew that he had not been honest in his plea,--that it was for Rachel\'s sake and not for Philip\'s (confound the boy!) that he had turned special pleader in the case,--but for heaven\'s sake, why couldn\'t the girl have pretended with him for a little while? Couldn\'t she see that he had to present the best side of his cause?

"I think possibly the matter is more serious than you realize," he said, dropping his eyes. "Philip is a high-strung young man. His disappointment was profound. It has seemingly shattered his ambition and his interest in life."

"Philip is a self-willed young man," she said, in a carefully modulated voice that was so palpable a mimicry of his own that he was torn between a desire to applaud her skill and to box her ears for her impertinence. "He cried for the moon, and when he couldn\'t have it, he evidently made things uncomfortable for his dear mamma and his self-sacrificing friend. But I believe, speaking under correction, that the best modern authorities, as well as the classic one I have already quoted, agree that the probabilities are highly in favor of a complete recovery,--in time. Don\'t you agree with me?"

"I am sorry not to be able to do so. In the first place I have been retained as a witness by the other side. In the second place, I can judge, as you cannot, of the rarity of the treasure that he thinks he has lost. I cannot say that his despair is excessive."

She smiled appreciatively.

"That was really very well done, under the circumstances. Well, now that these polite preliminaries have passed, what is the real object of your visit?"

"Allow me to point out that you make an ambassador\'s task unusually difficult by pressing so immediately to the point, but, since that is your way, I can only meet you in the same direct manner. My object is to ask whether it is not possible for you to reconsider your refusal to marry Philip Overman."

She lifted her head with a look of surprise. There was a sparkle in her eyes and this time it was not amusement.

"Did he send you?" she asked.

"He raved of you in his delirium. He talked of you incessantly. He has begged me times without number to ask you to come and let him see you for a minute,--for an hour. We pulled him through the fever and the rest of it, but his physical recovery has not restored his mental tone. He will not take up his life in the old way. He vows now that as soon as we let go our present surveillance, he will enlist and get himself sent to the Philippines. I think he means it. And it would be rather a pity, for in his state of health, to go to the Philippines as a common soldier would mean a fairly expeditious form of suicide. It would, beyond the slightest question, break his mother\'s heart. And she has no one else,--her husband died less than a year ago. Philip\'s death would mean a rather sad end for a good old family that has written its name in its country\'s history more than once."

She had dropped her eyes when he began, but at the last word she looked up.

"And what of my family?" she asked. There was a vibrant undertone of suppressed feeling in her voice which made Burton look at her questioningly. Exactly what feeling was it that brought such a challenging light into her eyes? He took refuge in a generalization.

"In America, the families of the high contracting parties come in only for secondary consideration, don\'t they?" he suggested. "But I have discharged my commission very poorly if I have failed to make you understand that Philip\'s family is waiting to welcome you with entire love and--respect." In spite of himself, he had hesitated before the last word.

She laughed,--a forlorn little laugh that was anything but mirthful; but whatever answer she might have made was interrupted by the sounds of an unusual commotion outside. A woman\'s excited voice was heard in exclamations that were at first only half distinguishable.

"Oh, doctor, doctor, for the love of heaven what have you been in, now? What have you done to yourself? You\'re hurt, doctor, I can see that you\'re hurt!"

"Nonsense, Mrs. Bussey, don\'t make a fuss," a man\'s voice answered impatiently.

But the housekeeper who had admitted Burton now rushed into the drawing-room, calling hysterically: "Oh, Miss Leslie, your father is killed!" And thereupon she threw her apron up over her head to render her more effective in the emergency.

She was followed almost immediately by a sufficiently startling apparition,--a powerfully built man of more than middle age, with a keen blue eye and an eager face. But just now the face was disfigured by the blood that flowed freely from a wound on his temple, and he supported himself by the door as though he could not well stand alone.

Leslie ran toward him with a cry.

"Father! Oh, father, what has happened?"