Mrs. Marsh and Hattie tried, offering gentle and kindly persuasions; but

he said;

"I would rather wait--till he comes."

Even old Marsh began to have suspicions that maybe he had been a trifle

too "brash," as he called it in the privacy of his soul, and he pulled

himself together and started toward Tracy with invitation in his eyes;

but Tracy warned him off with a gesture which was quite positive and

eloquent. Then followed the stillest quarter of an hour which had ever

been known in that house at that time of day. It was so still, and so

solemn withal, that when somebody's cup slipped from his fingers and

landed in his plate the shock made people start, and the sharp sound

seemed as indecorous there and as out of place as if a coffin and

mourners were imminent and being waited for. And at last when Brady's

feet came clattering down the stairs the sacrilege seemed unbearable.

Everybody rose softly and turned toward the door, where stood Tracy;

then with a common impulse, moved a step or two in that direction, and

stopped. While they gazed, young Brady arrived, panting, and put into

Tracy's hand,--sure enough--an envelope. Tracy fastened a bland

victorious eye upon the gazers, and kept it there till one by one they

dropped their eyes, vanquished and embarrassed. Then he tore open the

telegram and glanced at its message. The yellow paper fell from his

fingers and fluttered to the floor, and his face turned white. There was

nothing there but one word--

166

The American Claimant