“Thorburne Putney,” Marcia repeated, pleased with the euphonious syllables. Suddenly she remembered the house on Fourth Street, and Aunt Lois telling Mama she should have married Thorburne Putney. “Thorburne Putney,” she repeated with immense satisfaction in the coincidence, and an immediate impulse to make good use of it. She would wait at the gate of the grounds until he came out, and he would suddenly look at her and exclaim, “Good heavens, who are you? You are the spit and image of my long lost and only love, Daisy Reed. Can it be possible?” Then, skipping all details, Marcia saw herself immediately adopted by the great man and whisked off in a huge automobile, going from town to town on the Chautauqua circuit as his pampered daughter, and sometimes assisting him on the platform with a special recitation of “The Raven.” Visions of a glamorous future occupied her agreeably as she sauntered back and forth before the gate, and she was so deep in them that Mr. Putney and a red-haired massive woman were almost upon her before she recognized them. Recalling herself rudely from a grand ball in the White House where she was presiding at tea as the adored daughter of President Putney, Marcia looked up suddenly and let out a scream. The great man stopped and bent over her in alarm.

“Are you hurt? What happened?”

“I—I twisted my ankle,” Marcia gasped, forgetting her carefully planned approach. “I do it all the time. My mother used to know you.”

Mr. Putney and his companion stared at each other blankly.

“My mother’s name was Daisy Reed and I look like her,” Marcia babbled on. “Papa got married again and we live in the biggest house in town and I’m going to go on Chautauqua tours just like you after I get the County Elocution prize.”

The great Thorburne Putney shook his head in amazement, and began to laugh. It was not a jolly laugh, for he bared his teeth and shook the laugh out raspingly; it was like a rusty bucket on a rusty chain being fetched up from a dry well. Still, it was a laugh in its own way, and Marcia took it as great encouragement. She was disappointed that he gave no start of astonishment at hearing the romantic name of Daisy Reed once more, but passed a hand across his brow thoughtfully. The lady, who had the reddest hair that was ever seen on land or sea and a bosom on which she laid a variety of trinkets without even needing to fasten them, was much more friendly.

“So you get elocution prizes. Isn’t that nice?” she said. “That’s just how you got started, isn’t it, Thorburne?”

“Maybe the way I’ll end up, too,” Mr. Putney said sourly. “Twelve people in the tent this afternoon. All looked like idiots. What did you say your mother’s name was?”

“Daisy Reed,” said Marcia. “She’s dead.”

She felt tears coming to her eyes and thought with surprise that she did so have feelings, no matter what Lena said.