Ransom by Grace Livingston Hill Page A

would have cared. If it hadn’t been for the principle of the thing. I can’t bear to be robbed, even of something that is of no further use to me!”
    â€œLet’s put them back!” said Randall energetically, stooping over the heap with a wide basketball reach and scooping up a great armful. “You get the rest, Chris, an’ we’ll stow ’em away.”
    The father gathered up the little white ermine coat that Clara, the parlormaid, had shed, and touched its whiteness pitifully.
    â€œWait, Rand,” cried his sister, “you’re dragging that sable coat, and it’s got to go back, hasn’t it, Father?” She looked, half frightened toward her father, wondering if he would consider her words presumptuous.
    â€œWhy, yes,” he said, brightening. “I suppose that will be possible, if it is a recent purchase. Both of those furs can be returned. That ought to be looked after tomorrow morning. Could you call them up, Chrissie, and ask them about it? Here. Here’s the sales slip. But—oh, I forgot! Perhaps you ought to be going back to school in the morning,” he said with another of those deep sighs. “I haven’t had time to think about anything yet.” And again that look of depression came over his face and made it look almost ashen.
    â€œNo, not tomorrow,” said Christobel, “of course not. Tomorrow is Saturday, anyhow. Come, let’s get these things put away. What are you going to do with them, Father? Pack them away somewhere, or give them to somebody, or sell them? If you’d like me to I’ll attend to that for you, and you needn’t bother any more about it.”
    They had reached the door of Charmian’s rooms now, and Randall had flung it wide and dumped his armful down on a chaise longue. His eager, breezy youth seemed somewhat to dispel the gloom from this room where one couldn’t help but be conscious that the inhabitant had gone out, never to return. Randall had little reverence for anything. He dashed in where any angel would have feared to tread, but on this occasion it was a relief to them all.
    â€œNow, where d’ya want this junk put? Gimme the hangers, Chris, an’ I’ll stick ’em in.” Christobel handed him a bunch of hangers from the rod in the wardrobe, and he proved himself not so awkward in putting them into the dresses.
    â€œYou musn’t be so rough with those delicate laces and chiffons, Rand,” warned his sister, coming to the rescue.
    Mr. Kershaw was forcing himself to go about the room.
    â€œI don’t think you ought to be doing all this, Chrissie, little girl,” he said suddenly with a new tenderness that made the girl’s heart leap. “There are some friends I suppose who would look after it for us, though I’m not sure whom I would want here. I didn’t care much for some of the people who have been coming to this house. There would be Mrs. Romayne. I suppose she would come in, but your stepmother never liked her. It seems rather crude.”
    â€œNo, Father, don’t get anybody. This should be my work,” said Christobel, suddenly filled with longing to get all such matters out of the way before that perfumed woman of many words should come around. “I’ll not mind doing it at all. But—don’t you know what you want to do with them? Of course, those coats. Here, I’ll fold them in their boxes and they’ll be ready to go back. But the rest. There are some lovely things here, Father. And they ought to go to someone. Aren’t there people who would like them?”
    â€œYes, plenty!” said her father sternly. “But they are not the sort of people I care to please. I would rather burn them all. Those people are of another world. A wild sort. No, I don’t know anybody I would want to have them. You couldn’t use any of them yourself, I suppose? No. I wouldn’t want you to. They are