In one of the middle-west states there is a little city called Dorfield. It hasn't so many thousand inhabitants, but in all its aspects and its municipal equipment it is indeed a modern city. It has factories and a big farming community to support its streets of neat and progressive shops, and at the west side of the business district is a residence section where broad, wooded streets furnish the setting for many homes. Some of the houses are old and , and some are new and , but each has its flower-lit garden, its fruit and shade trees and its little garage or barn tucked away in the back yard.  
When you come to Oak Street there is a frame house on the corner, set well back, where Peter Conant, the lawyer, lives with his good wife and his niece Irene Macfarlane, who is seventeen. This is one of the ancient of Dorfield, for the Conants are "old inhabitants." Right next them stands a more modern and expensive, if less attractive, , with grounds twice as large and a lawn that puts the Conants' carelessly-cropped grass to shame. But the two families are neighbors and friends nevertheless, for in the new house lives Colonel James Hathaway and his granddaughter Mary Louise . At least, they live there when at home and, although they seem ramblers, they are glad to have this refuge to return to when wearied with traveling and sight-seeing.
 
One morning in June Mr. Conant was just seating himself at the breakfast table when a messenger-boy delivered a telegram—a "night letter" from New York. The lawyer, a short, thick-set man of middle age, with a stern but mild blue eyes, laid aside his morning paper and read the telegram with his usual deliberation. Mrs. Conant silently poured the coffee, knowing any interference would annoy him. Irene, the niece, was a cripple and sat in her wheeled chair at the table, between her uncle and aunt. She was a pleasant-faced, happy little maid, consistently ignoring her limbs and thankful that from her knees up she was normal and that her wheeled chair rendered her fairly independent of assistance in all ordinary activities. Everyone loved Irene Macfarlane because of her brave and cheery acceptance of her misfortune, and her merry speech and spontaneous laughter rendered her, as "Aunt Hannah" often declared, "the light of the house." Irene was, moreover, an intimate and highly valued friend of her next door neighbor, Mary Louise Burrows.
 
Mr. Peter Conant, his coffee reflectively, read the telegram a second time. Then he said, somewhat and chopping his words into distinct , as was his habit at all times:
 
"I wonder why people imagine a lawyer's duties cover every phase of life? My clients use me as a real-estate agent, a horse trader, a purchasing agent, a father confessor, an expert, a medical , and sometimes—in their simplicity—as a banker!"
 
"What's wrong now, Peter?" inquired Mrs. Conant with wifely sympathy.
 
"Colonel Hathaway wants to know—"
 
"Oh, is Mary Louise coming back?" cried Irene eagerly.
 
He frowned at her.
 
"What does the Colonel wish to know, Peter?"
 
"I object to this unwarrantable cross-examination," said he. "It is customary to first allow one to state his case."
 
"Forgive me, Uncle Peter!"
 
"Take your time," said Aunt Hannah, composedly buttering the toast. "You will, anyhow, and I'm sure Irene and I have both learned to our feminine curiosity."
 
He glanced at the telegram again.
 
"Do you know if the Pelton place has been rented, my dear?"
 
"The Pelton place? Why, it wasn't rented yesterday, for I passed by there and saw the rent sign still in the window. Mr. Harlan is the agent."
 
"I know. And where can we find a female house-servant, Hannah?"
 
"Now, see here, Peter; it's all very well for you to keep your own counsel, when there's a professional secret to be guarded, but if you want any help from me you've got to open your mouth and talk out plainly, so I can answer you in a sensible way."
 
"You're always sensible, Hannah," he observed, quite unruffled by her demand. And then he ate a whole slice of toast and drank his coffee and handed his cup for more before he another word.
 
Irene herself to her breakfast. She knew Uncle Peter's ways and that it was useless to attempt to hurry him or force him to explain, until he was quite ready to do so. Aunt Hannah her time. Peter was a thoughtful man, and he was doubtless thinking. His wife was not only a clever helpmate but was for her consideration of her .
 ............